


Match Fit

by ravenclawsquill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Berlin (City), Bickering, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Extremely Tight Leggings, Gay Draco Malfoy, Germany, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley Friendship, Head Massage, Healer Draco Malfoy, Inappropriate Erections, Injured Harry Potter, M/M, Magi-Physiotherapy, Massage, Masturbation, Pelvic Thrusts, Quidditch Injuries, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Quidditch World Cup, Rimming, Secondary Theme: Travel Fair, Shampooing, Shower Sex, Snitch Joggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-11-28 15:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawsquill/pseuds/ravenclawsquill
Summary: After picking up a groin injury just two weeks before the Quidditch World Cup Final, star Seeker Harry Potter reluctantly agrees to seek help from world-renowned Magi-Physiotherapist, Draco Malfoy.Cue sexual tension, naked sports massages, inappropriate erections and a healthy dose of acid-green lycra.





	Match Fit

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[147](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#) of the [HD Fan Fair 2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/hd_fan_fair/profile), and was really just a gratuitous excuse to write shower scenes and think about Draco wearing tight green leggings.
> 
> I'd like to say a huge thank you to my wonderful beta, [Nerakrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerakrose/profile), for her excellent suggestions and light-speed review, which improved this fic enormously.
> 
> Thank you also to the mods for their hard work running this fest, and for their patience and understanding in the face of an unacceptable number of extension requests.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always wonderfully encouraging - I'd love to know your thoughts on this fic! <3

~*~*~*~

_"… and Potter's closing in on the Snitch! Kowalski's catching up fast, this is going to be a close one, they're inches apart and—Merlin, what a dive! Potter feints, Kowalski falls for it, and Potter's reaching, he's right on the Snitch but Wozniak's coming in fast and—POTTER SLIPS, he's falling, he's—"_

~*~*~*~

Harry gasped and opened his eyes, only to flinch away from the blinding light which greeted him.

"Where am I?" he asked groggily, but his stomach was already sinking at the way his voice cracked from disuse. Waking up in a bright room with no memory of going to bed usually meant only one thing: an injury.

"Good morning, Mr Potter," came an unfamiliar female voice with a distinct German accent. "How are you feeling?"

"Yeah, 'm alright," Harry mumbled. "Bit woozy." He squinted at the blurry purple figure standing beside him, trying to make out her features.

“Would you like these?” she asked.

Before Harry had the chance to ask what he was being offered, his glasses were pushed firmly into his hand. He put them on and looked around, blinking and then groaning in despair as his sterile surroundings swam into focus, confirming his fears.

He was clearly in a hospital – one of the Magical variety, if the self-filling charts and hovering potion bottles dotted around the room were anything to go by. Harry took in the white walls and starched sheets before his gaze came to rest on the stern-looking Healer beside him. She was a tiny woman with hawkish features, dressed in lurid plum-coloured robes.

“Mr Potter, my name is Healer Klein. Do you recall the circumstances which brought you here?" she asked, distracting Harry immediately with her rolling r's and throaty vowels.

He thought hard for a long moment, but nothing came to mind. He shook his head. "No, the last thing I remember is going in for a dive…"

Healer Klein nodded and picked up a clipboard from the table at the foot of the bed. "That’s as I’d expect – the pitch-side medical team gave you a heavy dose of dreamless sleep. I’m afraid you sustained an injury during the match."

“Is it bad?” Harry asked, unsure whether he really wanted to know the answer.

The Healer glanced down at her clipboard and launched into what sounded like a well-rehearsed summary of events. "The pitch-side Healer's view is that you received significant muscular tearing as a result of—"

"Wait," Harry interrupted, his mind having finally caught up. "Sorry, but do you know if I caught the Snitch?"

Healer Klein put one hand on her hip and flashed him a disapproving look. "Mr Potter, it is imperative that we focus on your health right now."

"I know, but I just … I really need to know," Harry wheedled. "What was the score?"

The answer came, not from the Healer, but from the doorway, in a thick scouse accent. "Yes Harry, you caught the Snitch. 230 to 160."

Terry Higgs had appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders all but filling the frame in a way that reminded Harry fleetingly of Hagrid.

Harry sank back against his pillow in relief. "Thank fuck," he breathed, then immediately blushed at Healer Klein's look of horror. "Sorry, it's just, Angelina would have killed me if I'd lost us the match _and_ picked up an injury! It’s probably her last World Cup as Captain and—never mind," he finished weakly, as the Healer's frown continued to darken. "So, what happened to me?” he asked, changing tack.

But Healer Klein had turned her surly expression on Terry, who was still lurking in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir, who are you? This is a private hospital. You need to leave."

"It's fine, he can stay," Harry interjected. "He's my manager."

After a moment's consideration, Healer Klein nodded reluctantly and looked back down at Harry's notes. “It says here that you slipped from your broom whilst making the winning catch–-”

“No thanks to that bastard, Wozniak, blatching you when you had your fingers around the bloody Snitch!” seethed Terry, his face almost purple with rage at the recollection.

Healer Klein looked up at him, her mouth set in a tight line. “Yes, the notes do indicate that Mr Potter was bumped by a member of the opposing team … and then hit again on the hip by a Bludger during his fall, before one of the officials cast a … I'm not sure of the English incantation, a spell to make you float," she said, gesturing to one of the hovering potion bottles.

Harry winced. “_Wingardium Leviosa_,” he supplied. “Well, at least I’m feeling fine now.”

Healer Klein's jaw tightened. “Mr Potter, there’s something you need to know,” she said.

Harry could tell from the way she wouldn't meet his eye that it was going to be bad news. “What?"

"We had to completely remove the hip flexor muscles from the left hand side of your pelvis."

Harry forced himself to focus. "Right … what does that mean?"

"Well, we've regrown them using magical webbing and muscu-grow serum, but the new muscle fibres will likely be tight for a number of weeks,” she explained. “My recommendation is that you take at least a month off from all strenuous physical activity.”

Her words hit Harry like a Bludger, only this time he was taking it to the stomach. “A month?!” he stammered. “N-no, that’s too long – what about the final?!”

"You seem to be misunderstanding me, Mr Potter," Healer Klein said impatiently. "Your injuries were severe – you've been under a stasis charm and a Body Bind for three days. I would think competitive Quidditch will be out of the question for many months to come," she added, as Harry continued to shake his head.

"But I feel fine!" he protested, looking over at Terry for support. Terry, however, appeared to have been rendered speechless by the news.

Healer Klein softened slightly; a shadow of pity crept into her expression. "Mr Potter, there are a number of pain relief charms at work right now, and we've also been applying pickled Mandrake root to the affected area every hour, so I'd expect that to be the case. However, once they wear off you'll likely be rather sore."

Harry slumped back against his pillow in defeat. "Do I need to stay here?"

"Of course not," Healer Klein scoffed, her brusque manner returning in an instant. "You English patients are such babies! You are free to go as soon as you’ve signed the release paperwork. I'll request it now. You will need to return in two weeks for a checkup if you are still in Berlin, or alternatively I can arrange for the paperwork to be transferred to your local hospital in England."

"Here's fine," Harry agreed, eager to get back to his hotel and find out exactly how tight his new hip muscles were. "Thank you."

Healer Klein nodded and left the room, making no effort to disguise her disapproval of Terry as she pushed him aside.

~*~*~*~

Despite numerous promises that he could leave immediately, the sun had set and Harry had been visited by five of his teammates by the time his hospital release paperwork had finally been signed.

“So much for German efficiency,” he joked weakly as he limped out of the hospital on crutches, accompanied to the Apparition Point by a furious Angelina Johnson, who had been called away from the evening training session to help him back to his hotel.

Harry wasn't in the mood to talk, but it didn't matter: Angelina filled the silence with a steady stream of muttering.

"The worst part of all is that it was a bloody brilliant catch," she said, more to herself than to Harry. A few minutes later she'd moved on to "... and Wozniak _knew_ you already had the Snitch, it was a dirty move and he knew it…"

"Breathe, Ange," Harry interjected when she finally stopped to draw breath.

"How am I meant to do that?" she seethed. "In case you hadn't noticed, the _World Cup Final_ is in ten days and my two best Seekers are out of action!"

Harry didn’t have an answer for that. His apologetic shrug set Angelina off on a fresh rant; she didn’t even pause when she Side-Alonged Harry back to the hotel lobby, and was still going when they reached his suite.

“Are you at least coming to watch the training sessions tomorrow?” she asked once Harry had opened the door and hobbled inside.

Harry shook his head. “Terry doesn’t want me anywhere near the pitch until I’ve got a proper treatment plan in place. He said it’s to stop me from feeling tempted to fly, but he probably just doesn’t want me distracting Morris while she gets comfortable playing with you lot.”

Angelina didn’t reply straight away; she stayed put in the doorway, absently playing with one of the brightly coloured beads which adorned the ends of her braids. “We could always try to get hold of—”

"No. Absolutely not," Harry said flatly, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Not him. Literally anyone else but him."

Angelina frowned. “Healer Malfoy is the best there is. He did a brilliant job with my dislocated shoulder – the specialists at Saint Mungo's couldn't believe how quickly it healed!"

Irritation bubbled in the pit of Harry's stomach. “So? He’s also a complete prick. I’m sure there are plenty of other Healers who specialise in sports physio.”

"Yeah, you're right," Angelina scoffed. "There probably are – if you have six months to recover."

"I don't care!" Harry hissed, aware even as he said the words how petulant he sounded. ”Malfoy and I don’t get on. Everybody knows it, and no one in their right mind would trust him to help me!”

Angelina grabbed his arm. "Harry, don't be a dick. This is too important. Do you seriously think either of us will still be playing professionally when the next World Cup rolls around?"

"You'll be fine with Morris, she's had a great season," Harry protested, trying – unsuccessfully – to force the disappointment from his voice.

"She has, but if you really believe we have a hope in hell of winning a _World Cup Final_ playing our second reserve Seeker, those pain relief potions must be softening your brain!” Angelina hissed, wringing her hands in frustration. "If you think I'm going to let your ridiculous grudge stand in the way of my last chance at a World Cup win, you can think again. He isn't even that much of a dick anymore. I'm going to talk to Terry and see if we can get hold of him."

Harry sighed; he knew she was right. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose for what felt like several minutes. "Fine,” he huffed as he put them back on. “Contact Malfoy. He’ll probably say no anyway once he finds out it's for me.”

"We'll see about that," Angelina said, her jaw set in the same look of determination she usually wore when leading the team out onto the pitch. "Now, get some rest while you can. If Healer Malfoy agrees to take you on, you're going to have a busy couple of weeks."

With that, she strode purposely away down the corridor, leaving Harry alone in the doorway of his suite.

He watched her disappear round the corner before closing the door and hobbling over to the sofa. He sank down onto it with difficulty, cringing as the motion sent a jolt of pain through his left hip.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He didn't spend too much time dwelling on his misfortune, though: the cocktail of pain relief potions seemed to hit him all at once. Abandoning his plan to sit and brood, Harry eased himself onto his back and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

~*~*~*~

Without his usual thrice-daily training sessions, Harry didn’t know what to do with himself.

He woke up at 5am – a conditioned response to years of pre-dawn flight drills – and after the groggy confusion at finding himself on the sofa had subsided, he tried and failed to get back to sleep.

After a few hours of pacing stiffly around the hotel suite, he slumped down on the plush sofa to watch a compilation of Pensieve footage from France's last ten matches, having decided that if he couldn’t practice his own tactical moves, he could at least study those of his opponents.

Even that failed to hold his attention, though, and once the sun had risen high enough for his friends back home to be awake, Harry eased himself to the floor in front of the fireplace and called the only person he knew would be able to make him feel better.

After what felt like an incredibly long time Ginny's freckled face came into view. “Sorry,” she said as she sank heavily down onto a chair, “I only move at a flobberworm's pace these days.” She spent a few moments plumping the cushions and making herself comfortable, then turned her attention back to Harry. “So, how’s the walking wounded?”

Harry sighed, unable to put his frustration into words. "I just … can't believe it," he grimaced.

Ginny shook her head. "I nearly broke the Wireless when I heard the commentary – Dean said he's never heard language like it. Trust you to pick up an injury right before the final."

"I wish people would stop saying that," Harry said. "It's not like I go looking for trouble. And besides," he added, softening, "this is all your fault, anyway."

Ginny frowned. "How’s that?"

"If you hadn't been pregnant, I wouldn't even have made the team in the first place!” Harry explained. “I'd have been sitting comfortably on the bench with all my original muscles, enjoying the match like everyone else."

"Merlin, you're right. How selfish of me!" She winked, and Harry's heavy heart lifted, just a tiny bit. "So what's the plan? Any chance of you getting match fit or are you officially off the team?"

Harry told her about Angelina's plan to call Malfoy, expecting her to wrinkle her nose, but she just shrugged. "At least they're getting you the best treatment – Gwenog said he was brilliant when she used him. Saved her career after her knee injury, apparently."

"I know, _everyone_ says he's brilliant,” Harry conceded. “It's just that he's, you know…"

"Malfoy?" Ginny supplied. "Arsehole extroardinaire? Ex-Death Eater, posh git and former King of the school bullies?"

"Exactly. Actually, not the Death Eater thing; I get why he got caught up in that. It's more his general dickishness," Harry mused.

Ginny nodded. "That's not really a problem, though, is it? You deal with dicks all the time – you're on a league team with McLaggen, for god's sake!"

"Fair point," Harry agreed. "So yeah, the chances of me playing in the final are pretty much nil unless Malfoy agrees to help me and somehow pulls off a miracle. Until that happens, Morris will be playing instead."

Ginny leaned back, resting her hands on her enormous baby bump. "Bloody hell. I reckon I could outfly Morris even now,' she sighed.

Harry snorted. "Gin, you're literally nine months gone. They'd mistake you for the Quaffle."

"Exactly!” she grinned. “It'd be the perfect distraction! Nobody would dare aim a Bludger at me, that’s for sure!”"

They were deep in discussion of the pros and cons of using heavily pregnant players as a distraction tactic when a purposeful knock at the hotel door made Harry jump.

"Gin, I've got to go – someone's at the door,” he said. “I bet it's that maid who keeps telling me off in German for leaving my clothes on the floor."

Ginny nodded. "No worries. Good luck with the maid – and the physio!"

Leaving the Floo to die down, Harry got to his feet and limped gingerly over to the door. He peered cautiously through the peephole – he’d had more than enough run-ins with obsessive fans to open a door without checking who was on the other side of it – and blinked. Draco Malfoy was standing in the hotel corridor, dressed in a smart white shirt and grey waistcoat, leaning slightly to one side under the weight of a large leather holdall.

Harry opened the door, stunned. "Malfoy?"

Malfoy's expression remained completely neutral as he looked Harry up and down, taking in Harry's shabby joggers – emblazoned all over with fluttering Snitches – and crumpled t-shirt. “Hello Potter.”

“Erm, I wasn't expecting anyone,” Harry said defensively, wishing he'd at least thought to put a pair of jeans on before opening the door. “What are you doing here?”

Malfoy looked at Harry as if he’d never met anyone quite so stupid. “I thought you had a groin injury, not a head injury.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Your _charming_ manager demanded that I cancel all existing engagements and Portkey out here immediately to begin assisting you. He informed me that if I wasn’t here by tomorrow morning, he would … what was it? Oh, yes. He threatened to shove a broom up my arse.”

Harry winced. “Sorry about that. The stress of the tournament is getting to him … you should hear the things he’s been calling us in training. To be fair, I’ve probably not helped it by getting injured."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "No, I imagine that hasn't exactly lifted his mood."

"Anyway, how did you find me here?” Harry asked, unable to keep a note of suspicion from his voice.

Thankfully, Malfoy didn't seem to notice. “Angelina gave me your room number," he said. "She told me you wouldn't be attending the team training sessions today and suggested you'd probably be free to begin right away."

"Oh." Harry fell silent, thrown by the reasonableness of his answer.

When Malfoy realised that Harry wasn't going to say anything more, he looked pointedly over Harry’s shoulder, into the suite. “Are you going to let me in? This bag is rather heavy.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay," Harry said, though he needn't have bothered; Malfoy squeezed past into the living area before Harry could even finish stepping aside.

"I'll get set up then, shall I?" he said, setting down his holdall as Harry closed the door. "It’ll only take a moment."

Harry blinked. "Yeah, sure."

Malfoy took out his wand and used it to send the sofa and coffee table gliding over towards the back wall, clearing a large space in the middle of the room. After a brief pause, he cast a second spell, which caused the pieces of clothing which Harry had left scattered around the room to leap up and fold themselves into a tidy pile. "Merlin, you're messy," he murmured under his breath.

"Like I said, I wasn't expecting anyone," Harry said through gritted teeth, his cheeks prickling with embarrassment.

Malfoy wasn't listening, though; he was busy taking various items out of the holdall: a strange-looking metal belt, a black leather notebook, a roll of purple bandages. Harry watched from the doorway, feeling as though he'd wandered into an alternate reality.

Malfoy looked different from the last time Harry had seen him. It shouldn't have been surprising: Harry had seen plenty of pictures of him over the years – the slimy git had forever been popping up in all of the Quidditch magazines before his early retirement from the French League, and even now he appeared in them from time to time, usually credited with saving someone or other's career – but that hadn’t in any way prepared him for coming face to face with his old schoolboy rival after so long.

Malfoy was taller than Harry remembered, and looked even more so given how lean he was. He was still pointy, but he’d grown into his sharp features over the past decade – he’d lost that wild-eyed, underfed look Harry remembered from the post-war hearings. Even Harry had to admit he looked good.

He was absently wondering when Malfoy had cut his hair short when he realised Malfoy was looking at him expectantly. "Earth to Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "Sorry. Bit tired," he muttered.

“Hmm.” Malfoy folded his arms. “Well this won’t take long – it’s just an initial appraisal. Our real work will begin tomorrow. The purpose of today’s session is to establish the extent of the damage to your hip flexor, and identify any other minor injuries you may have. I can then use my findings to devise a treatment plan for us to follow over the coming days.”

He picked up the notebook and flicked his wand to summon an extravagant peacock quill from his bag. Harry bit back a laugh: _this_ was more like the Malfoy he remembered.

"We’ll begin with the basics," Malfoy said once he'd written Harry’s name at the top of a fresh page. "How would you describe your pain level when walking?"

Harry took a few steps, trying and failing to mask his slight limp. "Pretty low, maybe a two out of ten? It's more stiffness than pain – oh, but it's worse when I'm walking down stairs," he added, remembering the misery of going down to the hotel dining room for breakfast.

Malfoy nodded and made a note. "Understood. And how does it feel when you're hovering on your broom?"

"I haven't had a chance to try it yet,” Harry said. “I only got out of hospital last night and my broom's in the kit room."

Malfoy stalked back over to the holdall and took out a sleek Nimbus 2010 – clearly there were some heavy-duty extension charms at work. "Try it on mine," he offered. "It's not quite a custom-built Supernova Nebula, but it'll do for these purposes," he added with a wry smile.

Harry took Malfoy’s broom, thinking wistfully of his Nebula; he hadn't gone so long without using it since the day it had been delivered. The handle of this broom was too long – unsurprising, given that Malfoy was a good few inches taller than him – but the feel of the polished wood against his fingers sent a thrill up Harry’s arm all the same.

As Malfoy watched, Harry mounted the Nimbus and pushed gently off the ground to hover a few inches above it, testing his posture before spinning in a slow circle.

“You’re wincing,” Malfoy said mildly.

Harry sighed as he touched down. "It's fine if I'm just hovering on the spot, but it feels like it's pulling when I try to steer,” he explained. “It’s not like it matters, though: Terry won’t even let me anywhere near my own broom right now."

Malfoy nodded approvingly and scribbled something in his notebook. "A wise decision on his part, at least until we know what we’re dealing with."

Harry grunted: knowing Terry and Malfoy were in agreement didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“How was the mount?” Malfoy asked. “Any twinges when you swung your leg up?"

"No, it was fine, but then I always lift my right leg up, so…"

"So you do," Malfoy said, jotting down even more notes. "Try it now with your left leg."

Harry did, conscious of Malfoy's eyes on him. "_Unff_—yeah, that hurts quite a bit."

Malfoy nodded. “Unsurprising. It would be worth alternating your mount leg for the next few months," he said. "It’s typically one of the last motions to recover, especially when the injury is on your non-dominant side, so any extra stretching will only serve to speed things up.”

“Will do,” Harry agreed as Malfoy played absently with the colourful tip of his quill, apparently deep in thought.

“How does it feel when you go from standing to sitting?” he asked. “And vice versa?”

This was an easier question to answer. "It's not great for either of them, but sitting to standing is probably worse," Harry said. "Especially at the end of the movement, when I straighten up."

Malfoy wrote a few more lines in his notebook. “Okay. And what about during sex? Any pain or is it more akin to discomfort?"

Harry gaped. "What?!"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "How very Victorian of you." He sighed. "With hip flexor regrowth, it's common to experience low to moderate pain during most everyday activities, but to feel significant straining when performing a forward thrusting motion."

"I, erm, wouldn't know," Harry muttered, wishing for the ground to swallow him up. "Like I said, I only got out of hospital last night. And, erm, I'm not getting any of that at the moment, anyway," he added quietly.

"Poor you," Malfoy smirked. "I sympathise." He scribbled a couple more lines into his notebook. "It's not particularly dignified, but I'm afraid you're going to have to perform a few pelvic thrusts to test your range of motion."

"Brilliant." Harry sighed.

Malfoy grinned. “Everyone says that. Okay, given that you’re already dressed in _sporting attire_, we may as well do it now. Let’s warm up with some lunges.” He looked down at Harry’s joggers as he said it, and Harry felt his cheeks, already flushed from the mortifying sex question, burn even brighter.

After a few lunges, and a set of the dreaded hip thrusts – which turned out not to be anywhere near as bad as Harry was expecting – Malfoy made Harry put on the strange metal belt. It was covered in colourful metal spikes, which Malfoy advised would “capture data on the muscle fibre activity", but despite looking like a medieval torture device, it didn’t hurt at all.

Harry followed Malfoy’s instructions carefully, letting himself be guided through the movements.

“Push forward a bit more,” Malfoy said, then, “no, you’re using your abdominals, now. Push solely with your hips … yes, that’s better. How does that feel?”

Harry flinched as he extended the stretch. “It’s _ahh-fuck_! That hurts!” he hissed as white-hot pain shot through the left side of his pelvis.

Malfoy nodded. “All right, stop and lean forward. That’s it,” he hummed, his voice strangely soothing. “Just breathe through it until the pain has ebbed away.”

"Do you think there's any chance I'll be fit to play?" Harry groaned a long few minutes later, once he’d gingerly straightened up and taken off the belt.

Malfoy bit his bottom lip, considering it. "I think it would be a push for you to be at your best, but we could possibly get you to eighty percent if you do as I say and put in a great deal of work."

Harry blinked. "But the Healers at Saint Hildegard's reckoned it’ll be at least a month before I'll be fit to even get back on my broom," he said.

Malfoy reached out and took the belt from Harry's outstretched hand, his expression uncharacteristically kind. "For what it's worth, the German Healers tend to take a particularly conservative approach to recovery from injuries. A month without flying seems like a very heavy touch to me."

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?”

“Yes. If all goes well, we’ll be flying by this weekend.” He fastened the holdall and hauled it up onto one shoulder with a muted grunt. “Thank you for your time this morning at such short notice: I’m confident I have everything I need to prepare your treatment plan. Shall we make a start tomorrow morning at nine o’clock?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Harry nodded, watching as Malfoy picked up his jacket.

Once he was ready to go, Malfoy turned to face Harry once more. “Do you have anything interesting planned for the rest of the day?”

Harry sighed. “Not really. I’m going to run through some tactics with Morris later, but that’s it. How about you?”

“I’m going to bed for a bit before I start working on your treatment plan,” Malfoy said, shifting on the spot under the weight of his bag. “I hate International Portkeys, they always knock my magic out of balance. I feel as though I've been in a duel with a troll.”

The admission of vulnerability took Harry by surprise; it took him a moment to recover. “I know the feeling,” he said. Malfoy _did_ look tired, he realised. He suddenly felt bad for not having noticed earlier. “I reckon there’d be half as many Quidditch injuries if there was a 24 hour limit between Portkeying and flying.”

“If that were imposed, I suspect I’d lose half of my clients,” Malfoy smirked as he headed for the door.

“Thanks Malfoy," Harry said. "You know, for coming over to help me so quickly. I appreciate it."

“You’re welcome,” he said stiffly. “I don’t particularly fancy being held responsible for England losing the World Cup.”

Harry opened the door and gestured politely for Malfoy to leave. "Pretty sure it'd be me the angry mobs would go after," he sighed. "Well, me or Wozniak."

"Mmm, it was a particularly nefarious move on his part," Malfoy agreed. "I'll see you tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp. Don’t wear those joggers."

Harry watched him walk off down the hotel corridor, then closed the door and started a second run-through of the stretches. A bit of extra practice could never be a bad thing.

~*~*~*~

Despite their agreement to meet at nine o'clock the following morning, Malfoy arrived at exactly eight thirty.

Thankfully, Harry was ready for him. He'd showered and eaten, and had made sure to dress in plain black joggers – the Snitch pair were safely tucked under his pillow.

Malfoy seemed to have recovered from his journey: he was all business from the moment he stepped through the door. He passed Harry a dauntingly thick ring binder containing the treatment plan and launched into an explanation of its contents before Harry even had a chance to offer him a cup of tea.

"You'll likely already be aware, but my approach combines magical remedies with Muggle methods," he said. "Having assessed your injury, I believe the most effective course of treatment will be to start with a series of yoga sessions and deep tissue massages, with a view to moving on to flight drills and aerial acrobatics by the end of the week."

Harry frowned incredulously as he counted the days in his head. "That's only five days away."

"Well done," Malfoy smirked. "It's a tall order but by no means impossible. We have magic on our side, after all … and I really am excellent at my job."

He spent another twenty minutes running through the finer details of the plan – muscle groups, potion schedules and a few other items so technical he may as well have been explaining them to a brick wall – before announcing that it was time for their first yoga session.

"Have you done much yoga?" Malfoy asked, almost as an afterthought.

"Nope," Harry shook his head. "Never tried it."

Malfoy nodded. "That's fine, I can demonstrate the poses. I'll need to get changed, though," he added, gesturing at his suit. "Meet me in the training gym in twenty minutes."

***

When Harry stepped into the England team's training gym, he stopped dead at the sight which greeted him.

_Oh my fucking god._

Harry's mouth went dry. "What the fuck are they?" he spluttered, pointing at Malfoy's legs, which were encased in the tightest, _greenest_ lycra he'd ever seen.

Malfoy frowned. "They're my demonstration leggings. Why? Do you like them?"

Harry really didn't know what to say. "You look like a grasshopper," he managed eventually. "You'd better not have a pair for me."

"I don't," Malfoy confirmed. "They're custom-made and rather expensive. That said, I can put you in touch with the manufacturer if you'd like. I expect you'd want something standout – red and gold, perhaps? No … spangled with Snitches would be more your style."

"The Snitch joggers were a present from Mrs Weasley," Harry said flatly. "And no, thank you."

Malfoy looked as though he was suppressing a smile. "Suit yourself. You're missing out, though." He took a deep breath, apparently refocusing on the task at hand. “Shall we begin?”

Over the next hour, Malfoy led Harry through a series of stretches and yoga poses, demonstrating each one in turn before helping Harry to replicate it. Harry did his best to concentrate and, based on Malfoy's positive feedback, his attempts to copy the positions were fairly successful, but it was an effort: the sight of Malfoy's long legs clad in acid-green lycra was just about the most distracting thing he'd ever witnessed.

From how skinny Malfoy was, Harry would have expected his legs to be bony, but they weren't; they were lean and toned, right up to the indecent bulge where they met ... As they moved into yet another pose, this time on their hands and knees with one leg extended behind them, Harry found himself wondering whether Malfoy was wearing a cup under the leggings.

He was so deeply engrossed in this train of thought that he didn't realise straight away when Malfoy ended the pose and got to his feet. After a moment's delay, Harry jumped up too, colour flooding his cheeks at the idea of how mortifying it would be to get caught staring at Malfoy's crotch.

Thankfully, Malfoy seemed oblivious to Harry's ogling: he picked up the session plan and scanned it, nodding in satisfaction. "That's the yoga portion complete. Now it's time for the less gentle element of your flexibility training.”

"Sounds ominous," Harry said lightly, making a great effort to keep his eyes from straying down to those ridiculous leggings. Focusing on Malfoy's upper body wasn't much help, though: his long-sleeved top was just as tight as the leggings, even if it was black rather than bright green.

"Earth to Potter?" Malfoy said sharply, waving a hand in front of Harry's face. "I said, we'll start with an easy one."

"Huh?"

"Lunges," Malfoy announced. "Three sets of ten for each leg. Let's go."

As the session went on, Malfoy directed Harry through more exercises than Harry had even known existed. There were countless variations of lunges, squats, jumps and a particularly embarrassing hip circle movement which left the shadow of a smirk on Malfoy's face – the only hint of a crack in his otherwise professional demeanor.

Harry did as he was told, letting Malfoy guide him through each set of exercises. It felt odd to follow his old rival's instructions so unquestioningly, but despite a bit of stiffness, none of the motions were overly painful.

“That was alright,” he said as he finished the cool down, using the back of his hand to wipe away the light sheen of sweat from his forehead.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Such high praise!” he said mockingly, putting a hand over his heart. “And from the Chosen One himself!”

“Oh, sod off,” Harry grinned. “All I meant was that I was expecting it to hurt, and it didn’t.”

Malfoy tutted. “As if I’d be so foolish as to put you at risk of causing more damage,” he muttered, but there was no malice in his tone. “Besides, why are you speaking as though we’ve finished for the day?”

Harry blinked. “We haven’t finished?”

Malfoy shook his head. “No. We still have your deep tissue massage and potions overview to complete.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry said. In his post-exercise state, he’d forgotten all about the other parts of Malfoy’s treatment plan.

Malfoy cast a wandless _Tempus_ and pursed his lips. "I have a few errands to run now, so shall we meet back at your hotel room after lunch?"

“Sure, okay,” Harry agreed.

Malfoy nodded. “That’s settled, then. By all means have a shower, but don’t use any moisturiser afterwards. I’ll be using a topical potion during the massage and any foreign substance could significantly reduce its effectiveness.”

“I don’t use moisturiser,” Harry said.

“Of course you don’t,” Malfoy sighed, shaking his head in mock despair. He turned away – though not before Harry had caught a glimpse of the smile threatening to spread across his face – and strode purposefully out of the gym, unaware of the way Harry’s eyes followed him, transfixed on his lycra-clad arse until he disappeared from view.

***

When Malfoy arrived at Harry’s hotel suite after lunch, Harry was almost disappointed to see that he was no longer wearing the demonstration leggings: the smart grey suit was back, along with the now-familiar black holdall. Harry squashed his disappointment quickly and invited Malfoy in, determined not to give him any opportunity to start criticising his manners again.

Malfoy headed straight for the living room. He looked around before taking out his wand and using it to shrink the coffee table to the size of a shoebox and Transfigure the armchair into a treatment bed.

Harry watched on as Malfoy adjusted the bed, lifting it to waist height and making sure it was completely flat before slipping off his jacket and laying it carefully on the sofa.

“What do I need to take off?” Harry asked, gesturing down at his vest and joggers.

Malfoy looked him up and down, raking his gaze over Harry’s body with such intensity that Harry could practically feel it searing his skin. “You’re fine to leave the vest on but you’ll need to pull it up a bit. The joggers will need to go, though, as will your underwear.”

Harry swallowed. He’d expected as much, but his stomach still twisted with nerves on hearing Malfoy confirm it. “Fine.”

Malfoy rolled up his sleeves, turning the cuffs of his shirt neatly over on themselves in perfect folds until they were pushed up past his elbows.

When he finished with his left sleeve, Harry’s heart gave a jolt. Malfoy's Dark Mark was faded but horribly visible, a sickening smudge of smoky grey against the lily-white flesh of his forearm.

“Would you like to take a picture?” he asked icily, his professional manner evaporating in an instant.

Harry flinched, horrified to have been caught looking at it. “No. Sorry. I just haven’t seen one of those in a really long time.”

“Lucky you,” Malfoy muttered under his breath, and then, in a louder voice, "I'm afraid you'll just have to ignore it. This is a good shirt; I have no desire to get dittany stains on my cuffs."

He turned away and rifled through his holdall; Harry could hear bottles clinking inside. After a bit more rummaging, Malfoy took two white towels out of the bag. He put the first one on the treatment bed, and passed the second to Harry.

“For your modesty,” he said wryly. “You’ll need to lie face down for the start, so make yourself comfortable and let me know when you’re in position.” With that, he stalked over to the window and busied himself with the blinds, apparently giving Harry a moment of privacy to undress.

Harry did so clumsily, stumbling as he stepped out of his joggers and boxers. He felt so ridiculous wearing only a vest that he took that off, too, before climbing onto the treatment bed. He settled down on his stomach and pulled the second towel over his arse, firmly telling himself that the reason his heart was pounding was entirely due to the weirdness of being naked in a room with his old schoolboy nemesis.

Harry swallowed. “Right,” he said, looking over at Malfoy. “I’m ready.”

Malfoy turned and came back over to the treatment bed. His eyes lingered for a moment over the bare skin of Harry’s back, but he didn’t mention the missing vest. “Excellent. Just so you know what to expect, I'll begin with light pressure on your lower back and the outside of your hips, and gradually work my way inwards until I reach the new muscle fibres. I don’t imagine you’ll feel any pain at all, but let me know if you do and I’ll stop immediately.”

“Okay.” Harry put his head down and closed his eyes, waiting for the massage to begin.

He heard the sound of clinking glass bottles, then after a minute or so, Malfoy whispered an incantation Harry didn’t quite catch and placed his hands on the small of Harry’s back. Harry felt the tingle of Malfoy's magic a fraction of a second before they made contact; a subtle hum emanating from his palms. It was unexpectedly pleasant, sending a wave of warmth over Harry’s skin as he began to move his thumbs in small circle, somehow managing to find the most tender points without even trying.

“Nasty scar you have there,” he murmured as he moved his fingertips outwards to the sides of Harry’s hips.

“Hmm?” Harry asked, dazed already from the dizzying sensation of Malfoy’s hands against his skin.

“On your back.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry sighed. “I took a Quaffle to the chest during training a couple of years ago and hit one of the hoops on my way down.”

Malfoy didn’t reply, but Harry suspected he was rolling his eyes. He withdrew his hands, and when they returned, the crisp, clean scent of dittany filled Harry’s nostrils; it reminded him of how a Quidditch pitch smelled after a heavy rainfall.

"Is that pure dittany?" Harry asked, mainly to break the silence. “Half the team rave about it, but I’ve never found it that helpful.”

"No," Malfoy said after a long pause, clearly concentrating on his hand movements. "It's my own special solution. Three parts dittany, one part Murtlap extract, one part aloe vera. I find it to be highly effective for the vast majority of my clients.”

“Oh. It smells nice,” Harry said, wincing as Malfoy began to knead at a particularly tight knot of muscle at the side of his left hip. “Is Murtlap extract the same as essence of Murtlap?”

"Extract is more potent," Malfoy explained. “It’s squeezed directly from the tentacles and stored as a sterile solution rather than being pickled. It can be very effective, but the side effects of an incorrect dosage are fairly unpleasant, so I wouldn’t recommend that you try it without Healer supervision.”

"Understood," Harry said. He drew breath to ask what the unpleasant side effects involved, but at that exact moment Malfoy pushed his fingertips firmly into the knotted muscle beside Harry's hip bone. The rush of relief was so sudden, so intense, that Harry didn't even try to suppress his groan.

“_Nnghh!_”

"Sounds as though I've found the new muscle fibres," Malfoy muttered above him, sounding irritatingly smug.

Harry couldn't speak, couldn't move. The rich heat of Malfoy’s magic radiated from his hands, reaching deep beneath Harry's skin. It felt unbelievable, a thrumming pleasure which was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced during a sports massage – but it was _Malfoy_ touching him, and all Harry could think about was those fucking leggings from earlier, and how Malfoy's hands were far too close to his arse.

Before he could process it all, Harry's body responded. He was hard within seconds, his cock pressing needily against the padded cushion of the treatment bed. He tried desperately to think of something, _anything_ else, but it was no use; Malfoy’s hands were warm and soft, and his fingertips were inching even further around Harry's hips, moving ever closer to his crotch...

Harry squeezed his eyes tightly shut and frantically attempted to will his arousal away, whilst simultaneously fighting the temptation to thrust into the cushion of the bed. All the while, Malfoy's clever fingers teased the tight spots from Harry's muscles, leaving tingling, bone-deep pleasure everywhere they touched.

Suddenly, Malfoy's voice interrupted his fretting. "That should be enough to loosen you up. Now, turn over and we'll move on to the deep tissue element of the massage."

The worry that had been steadily flooding Harry’s veins gave way to panic. It was almost enough to kill his erection. Almost. "I, uhh, can you do a bit more on the back, first?" he asked desperately. "It's still a bit sore."

Malfoy withdrew his hands and waited. “Are you seriously suggesting that your knowledge of the musculoskeletal structure is better than mine?”

Harry looked up, cringing. “No, I just–-”

“I didn’t think so,” Malfoy interrupted. “So turn over. And don’t worry about _that_,” he added mildly, with a subtle nod in the direction of Harry’s crotch that told Harry he knew exactly what was going on after all. “It’s more common than you’d think.”

“What?” Harry felt a hot blush stain his cheeks and wondered if he might actually sink through the bed in shame. “It’s common for clients to get hard from your massages?”

Malfoy smirked. “I meant that the body tends to misinterpret the sudden absence of pain as pleasure. But thank you, I have been told that I have a gift for magi-medical massage.”

Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest. "What? I didn't—oh, bugger off, Malfoy."

"For what it's worth, I'm confident you'll find the deep tissue element considerably less enjoyable than the warm up." The flash of amusement in his eyes only made Harry blush harder.

_Less enjoyable than discussing your overexcited dick with Malfoy?_ he wondered. He made one last attempt at willing his erection away – wildly thinking of Terry dressed in Malfoy's green leggings – but it was no use and he reluctantly turned over, making a great effort not to make eye contact.

Thankfully, Malfoy’s professional facade was back in place and he didn’t say another word; just busied himself with the potions for a few moments, then got on with the massage.

As it turned out, Malfoy was right: the deep tissue part of the massage _was_ worse than Harry's unwanted erection. Malfoy used his wand to send deep pulses of magic into Harry's hip muscles, apparently to stimulate the new muscle fibres and help Harry to 'break them in' more quickly.

Harry tried to listen to Malfoy’s ongoing commentary, but it was hard to concentrate. The pain was excruciating: far worse than any Muggle deep tissue massage he'd ever received. The only positive was that all feelings of arousal disappeared as quickly as they had come on.

"Would you like to take a break?" Malfoy asked after ten agonising minutes had passed. "Most of my clients prefer to split these sessions, so as to better manage the pain."

"No, it's fine," Harry ground out through gritted teeth. "Doesn't hurt that much, really."

Through the corner of one watering eye, Harry was sure he saw Malfoy shake his head and mutter the word, “_Martyr_”.

"Very well,” Malfoy said. “Don’t forget that you can let me know at any point if you change your mind and wish to stop."

Not trusting himself to say anything further, Harry screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip as Malfoy carried on. It seemed to last an age, with Malfoy alternating using the end of his wand and his sharp fingertips, pushing ever deeper into the tenderest part of Harry’s injured hip.

By the end of the massage, Harry wasn't confident he'd even be able to stand. He'd never have admitted as much, so he was grateful when, after Summoning his dressing gown and turning away while he put it on, Malfoy helped him to his feet without a word and half-carried him over to the sofa.

"Now," Malfoy mused, looking around the room. "We need to minimise the temptation for you to get up and start lumbering around. I won’t have you undoing all of my hard work."

He looked over at the kitchen, then went over to it and started bustling about. Harry watched as he boiled the kettle and examined the contents of the fruit bowl, looking unnervingly at home.

Five minutes later, Harry was still sprawled on the sofa in his dressing gown, but now he had a cup of tea, a banana, and a bottle of Malfoy’s special dittany lotion – “_to be applied every hour until bedtime_” – all within arm’s reach. He looked on, feeling a bit useless, as Malfoy tidied away his things and returned the armchair and coffee table to their original state, all while explaining the scheduling requirements for the rest of Harry’s potion prescriptions.

“Same time tomorrow?” Malfoy asked once he’d finished. “We can meet at the gym.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed.

“Excellent. I’ll see myself out, then.” Malfoy picked up his holdall and headed for the door. “Don’t even think about moving for at least an hour,” he ordered. “I’ll know if you do!”

And with that he left, leaving Harry to sip his tea and spend several hours dwelling on the mortifying events of the massage.

~*~*~*~

The next few days followed the same pattern: yoga and stretching in the morning, followed by gentle strength training and ending with one of Malfoy’s magi-medical massages.

The first two parts went smoothly enough – aside from the ever-present distraction of Malfoy’s ludicrous green leggings – but the massages continued to pose the same rather embarrassing problem. Each time, Harry lay down on the massage bed determined not to get hard, and every time it happened anyway. By the end of the week, he was almost beyond caring: even though the massages were becoming less painful, leaving him hard for longer, he turned over without complaint when Malfoy asked him to and stared determinedly at the ceiling, blushing furiously. To his credit, Malfoy was unfailingly professional about the whole thing. He never mentioned Harry’s inappropriate erections and maintained a subtle frown of concentration throughout the duration of each massage.

All in all, Harry was stunned not only at how quickly his body seemed to be healing under the treatment plan, but how much he enjoyed working with Malfoy. Far from the snooty teenager Harry remembered, Malfoy was turning out to be surprisingly good company. He was patient whenever Harry struggled with the more demanding yoga positions, and kept him distracted through the less comfortable exercises with a seemingly endless series of stories about other Quidditch players he’d worked with.

When Friday’s afternoon session came to an end, Harry was almost disappointed when Malfoy announced that the following afternoon would mark the start of the second phase of the treatment plan.

“No morning yoga, then?” Harry asked, leaning into Malfoy as he limped over to the sofa.

“No. Don’t look so disappointed – we’ll be flying, instead."

Harry's stomach gave a leap of excitement. "Yeah?"

Malfoy nodded. "Yes. Nothing too taxing at first, but I'm satisfied that your new muscles are loose enough for some moderate flight drills."

"_Brilliant!_" Harry knew he was grinning like a kid who’d received their Hogwarts letter, but he didn’t care.

"I thought you'd say that," Malfoy said. He started the usual process of packing up while Harry watched from the sofa. “Any plans for this evening?” he asked as he put his potions into the holdall.

“Nope,” Harry said. “Well, unless you count sitting here slathering myself in dittany as a plan. You?”

Malfoy grinned. "This is why I’m always baffled when people complain about the lavish lifestyles of Quidditch players. You’re the most boring people on the planet! Thankfully my life is much more interesting; I'm going for a few drinks at Klunkerkranich with some old friends."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

Malfoy stopped what he was doing. He looked up at Harry, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're joking. You can't have spent six weeks in Berlin and not visited Klunkerkranich."

Harry racked his brain, searching for any recollection of what Klunker-whatever-it-was might be. “I've never heard of it," he admitted when nothing came to mind. "What is it? A bar?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "_Yes_, it’s a bar.” He frowned slightly, worrying his bottom lip with his front teeth; an expression Harry had come to recognise as his thinking face. “Right," he said suddenly. "You're coming with me."

Harry blinked. "What?"

Malfoy was rummaging around in his holdall again. He took out a tiny glass phial and handed it to Harry. "Try not to move until at least six, then apply four drops of this along the inside of your hip bone. It's a stronger formula and should continue working even while you're moving around. We'll meet at the Flughafenstrasse Apparition Point at eight."

"Erm, okay," Harry agreed. He turned the little phial over in his hands, feeling completely thrown by Malfoy's sudden invitation.

“Fairly casual dress will be fine, but remember: no Snitch joggers," Malfoy informed him as he shouldered his bag.

“Piss off!” Harry laughed, but Malfoy was already stalking off, snickering under his breath.

~*~*~*~

Malfoy was right, Harry mused, as he took in the view of the city: a visit to Klunkerkranich should be compulsory for anyone spending time in Berlin.

Malfoy had already been at the Apparition Point when Harry arrived, leaning against a wall looking fashionably bored, and any lingering confusion Harry had been clinging onto over his interest in Malfoy had evaporated on the spot. The way Malfoy looked in his jeans and pale pink shirt – the top two buttons left undone to reveal a sliver of creamy skin – had stolen Harry's breath.

"This doesn't look like a bar," Harry had said when he trusted himself to speak, frowning up at the concrete car park in front of them.

"You'll see," Malfoy had grinned, which hadn't clarified the situation at all until they stepped out of the lift – a feature which Malfoy found highly amusing – a few minutes later. Only then had Harry realised that the bar was _on top_ of the car park. Not that Klunkerkranich looked much like a bar: it was more of a rooftop garden, with green foliage spilling wildly from the countless wooden plant pots and baskets which filled the open space.

“And we share the space with the Muggles?” Harry had asked as they weaved through the crowds.

“Exactly!” Malfoy had confirmed. “It’s part of the charm – all very quaint, don't you think? They have a couple of Obliviators on hand in case of indiscretion, but from what I’ve heard, they’re very rarely needed.”

They’d found Malfoy’s friends lounging on one of the best benches in the entire bar; one with an uninterrupted view across the city, the skyline turned faintly hazy in the late evening sun.

They were decent blokes: both were Healers Malfoy had met during the course of his medical training, and they made for cheerful company. Before Harry knew it, several hours had passed and his pint glass was, once again, empty. He glanced over at the bar. "I’ll get the next one,” he offered. “What do you fancy?"

Gunter and Klaus predictably opted for another pint of beer, but Malfoy whispered a subtle _Accio_ and a cocktail menu fluttered towards them as if caught in the breeze. He took a moment to read it, during which Harry had a perfect opportunity to watch him unobserved; to enjoy the way the setting sunlight darkened his short hair to the rich colour of gold, and take in the faint pink blush that crested his cheeks.

“I’ll have a Gillysektblase,” Malfoy said suddenly, startling Harry out of his stupor. He thrust the cocktail menu under Harry’s nose, pointing at the drink he wanted.

Harry's jaw dropped. “Bloody hell, Malfoy! That’s ten galleons a glass!”

Malfoy shrugged. “It’s a little overpriced, yes, but I do like to mix things up every now and then and it's infinitely better than drinking straight spirits. Besides,” he added with a wolfish grin, “it’s a special occasion. I never thought I'd live to see the day that the great _Harry Potter_ bought me a drink! Far be it from me to waste your extortionate salary on sub-standard alcohol.”

Harry sighed and headed for the bar, watching from afar as Malfoy chatted with his mates. It was strange to see him so relaxed – and stranger still how much Harry wanted to hurry back over to him. Thankfully, the queue at the bar was a short one and it wasn't long before Harry was weaving his way back through the crowd with a tray of drinks.

As Harry rejoined the group and handed them out – including Malfoy’s ridiculously ornate cocktail glass – a group of figures caught his attention. “Malfoy? Is that—”

"We've been working together several times a day for the past week and now we're out for drinks," Malfoy interrupted, cuffing Harry lightly on the shoulder. “Surely I've earned first name terms by now?"

"Fine, _Draco_," Harry conceded, feeling oddly self-conscious as he said it. "Look who's just arrived."

Three members of the French Quidditch team were standing near the steps, each holding a tankard of beer.

Harry was never sure of the etiquette in the run up to an international match. He generally avoided social situations where he might bump into the opposition – it just wasn't worth opening himself up to tactical mind games. That strategy didn't seem like an option tonight, though: the French had clearly spotted him. In fact, Moreau, one of the burly-looking Beaters, seemed to be heading over.

Harry steeled himself for an awkward conversation about the Final, only to be thrown when Moreau arrived at their bench and immediately threw his arms tightly around Draco.

"Blondie!" he grinned, planting an enthusiastic kiss on each of Draco’s cheeks. "It's been too long! I 'ave missed you!"

"Of course you have, I'm the best thing that ever happened to you," Draco said dryly, reaching over to tug at one of Moreau’s braids.

"Still funny, Blondie, I knew you would be," Moreau chuckled. “And working with the enemy, I see?” he added conspiratorially, turning to wink at Harry.

“Tsk, I hardly think supporting my national team constitutes ‘working with the enemy’,” Draco scoffed, but Moreau didn’t seem to be listening; his attention was fully focused on Harry now.

“I don’t believe we ‘ave ‘ad the pleasure of meeting off the pitch,” he said. “I’m Raphael." He leaned in to kiss each of Harry’s cheeks, his neatly sculpted stubble briefly catching Harry’s skin with each peck.

“Harry,” Harry said, a moment too late. He stood, blinking dazedly, as Raphael introduced himself to Gunther and Klaus, then started speaking to Draco in French, only for Draco to reprimand him.

"Now now, Raph,” Draco tutted, “Harry doesn't speak French – and Klaus isn’t exactly fluent, either. Let's stick to English, hmm?"

It didn’t make a great deal of difference: the five – or was it six? – beers all seemed to hit Harry at once, and he struggled to follow the conversation, which seemed to revolve around the antics of various people Draco and Raphael knew, but whom Harry, Klaus and Gunther had never met.

He nodded along, but soon gave up trying to listen. Instead, he watched Moreau, noticing how his eyes were roamed hungrily over Draco, even when someone else was talking. It wasn’t subtle; Klaus caught Harry’s eye and nodded pointedly, which did nothing to quell the queasy wave of jealousy creeping in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

And why _wouldn't_ he be jealous? Moreau hadn't won the most recent Quidditch Stud of the Year Award for nothing: he looked like a bloody action figure. His high cheekbones were in perfect proportion to his chiselled jaw, and his dark skin practically shone in soft evening light. As if that weren't unfair enough, his muscular silhouette was far broader than anything Harry could ever hope to achieve.

Thankfully, Moreau didn’t stick around for long. After another ten minutes or so of ogling Draco, he wandered off to rejoin his teammates, though not before pulling Draco in for a hug that lasted several moments too long.

With Moreau out of the way, the conversation quickly returned to topics all four of them could join in with – Harry snorted half a pint out of his nose when Gunther performed a particularly vigorous impression of a hungry dragon – but Draco shook his head when Klaus volunteered to get another round in, announcing that it was time for he and Harry to call it a night.

Gunther and Klaus wanted to stay a while longer, so they said their goodbyes and headed for the bar while Harry and Draco squeezed through the tightly packed space in search of the lift; the bar was much busier now that the live music had started.

"Moreau seemed pleased to see you," Harry said as the lift began to descend, uncomfortably aware that his attempt at sounding off-hand had fallen flat.

Draco shrugged as if he hadn’t noticed. "It's been a while since our paths crossed."

“Former client?” Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.

Draco waved a dismissive hand. "No, I haven’t worked with him. Raph's an ex from a few years ago."

"Oh." Harry wasn’t sure what to say; Draco’s confirmation had triggered another hot rush of dislike for Moreau, so strong it took him by surprise. It was irrational, unreasonable … but that didn’t make it any less intense.

“Anyway, what do you think of Klunkerkranich?” Draco asked.

“It’s brilliant,” Harry conceded. “Far more fun than I expected.”

Draco gasped in mock offence. “Harry Potter, are you insinuating that I don’t come across as a fun person?”

“I didn’t say that!” Harry protested. “I just meant that it was more laid back than I expected. I figured you’d be more of a champagne bar kind of bloke.”

“Oh, I’d never turn down a visit to a really good champagne bar, but a beer garden is just perfect at this time of year, don’t you think?” Draco stepped out of the lift without waiting for an answer, then his eyes lit up again. “And you’ve barely seen half of what this place has to offer. We’ve been in the garden zone all evening, but there are a few indoor rooms, too, and during the day they host poetry readings. Oh, and in December they even have a full Christmas market up there...”

They headed out into the street, Harry only half listening as Draco rambled on, enjoying his enthusiasm more than the many virtues of Klunkerkranich. Harry made sure to nod and hum in agreement at all the right places: with Draco distracted, Harry was free to look at him properly as they walked. The alcohol had continued to warm Draco’s cheeks, turning them a rosy pink, and the gentle summer breeze had tousled his usually immaculate hair into an artfully messy quiff that made Harry’s heart leap up into his throat.

"I didn't know you spoke French," he mused when Draco’s hard sell of the German pub scene finally came to an end.

"Hmm? Oh, oui, j'avais l'habitude de parler couramment, mais plus maintenant," Draco replied, gesturing as he spoke in a smooth, almost fluid manner Harry had never noticed him use when speaking English.

Harry swallowed hard. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar language, but Draco’s voice sounded lower in French; more intimate. It was pleasant in a way that made Harry's cock twitch in his pants.

"Sorry,” Draco said, apparently mistaking Harry’s glassy-eyed expression for confusion. “I said, yes, I used to be borderline fluent but I'm a little out of practice, these days. My parents have a summer house in Bordeaux, so I spent quite a bit of time there growing up."

"Oh. Right," Harry breathed.

"Now come here," Draco said abruptly, holding out his right arm as if to put it around Harry’s shoulders.

Harry stared. "What? Why?"

"You're pissed. What kind of Healer would I be if I allowed you to splinch yourself and undo all my hard work?"

"And _you're_ sober?” Harry laughed. “You've had as many drinks as I have – and no offence, but you're a skinny bastard so I reckon you must be even worse off than me!"

Draco rolled his eyes, unconvinced. "That may be true, but aside from the one Gillysektblase, I've been sticking to the 3.5% whereas _you_ seem to have a taste for lethal German home brews."

"Fine," Harry conceded. He _did_ feel a bit dizzy, after all. He slipped an arm around Draco's waist, stumbling as Draco's arm settled around him, pulling him in.

Harry couldn't help it; he relaxed into Draco's grip, inhaling subtly as their bodies came fully into contact. Despite the hours of drinking, Draco smelled clean and fresh, like sea air and sandalwood, and Harry could feel the warmth of his skin through his pale pink shirt. It was far more pleasant than any Side-Along had the right to be.

"Ready?" Draco murmured.

Harry looked up at him and nodded, utterly overwhelmed.

The familiar _crack_ of Apparition pierced the air, and Harry felt Draco's magic pulse through his body as space and time contracted around them.

When they materialised at the Apparition Point across the road from Harry's hotel, Harry expected Draco to let go immediately, but he didn't. They stood in their sideways embrace for a long moment, with Draco's arm still settled firmly around Harry's shoulders. Draco swallowed audibly; Harry watched his adam's apple sink and rise, and suddenly no longer trusted himself not to lean in for a kiss.

"Night, Draco," Harry said hastily, slipping clumsily out of Draco’s grip and desperately hoping the darkness would conceal his blush.

Draco nodded and stepped away, looking almost resigned. Harry felt the loss of body heat immediately. "Night, Harry. I’ll meet you at the training pitch tomorrow. One o’clock."

Harry hummed his agreement, then turned and all but ran across the road as Draco walked away, determined not to look back at him for fear of what it might mean.

His determination was a half-hearted effort: as soon as he got back to his suite, Harry's resolve broke. The moment the door clicked shut, he unzipped his jeans and pulled his boxers roughly down, inhaling sharply as he wrapped his fingers around his aching cock.

Without allowing himself to think too hard about what he was doing, Harry let his head fall back against the door and wanked. He tried to set a steady pace, but it was no use: he was too sensitive, too desperate for relief. He tugged feverishly at his cock, his hand turning slick with pre-come despite his clumsy movements and stuttering rhythm.

The door handle was pressing awkwardly into the small of his back, but Harry was so preoccupied he barely felt it. He’d been half hard all evening: he _needed_ this, needed to feel pleasure flooding his entire body...

It didn't take long.

The hours of wanting caught up with Harry so suddenly it took him by surprise. He reached up to pinch his left nipple through his shirt, breath catching as it magnified the sensations between his legs, then came with a hoarse moan, his mind fixed on the memory of how Draco's warm body had felt against his own. He panted shamelessly through his orgasm, hardly noticing how his release smeared the hem of his shirt, and didn’t stop moving his hand until the sudden onset of oversensitivity caused his hips to jolt involuntarily away.

Sated but nowhere near satisfied, he stumbled to the bedroom with his jeans still halfway down his thighs. He fought his exhaustion just long enough to strip naked and apply another dose of dittany lotion, then sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

~*~*~*~

When Harry woke up the following morning, the first thing he did was groan into his pillow as the events of the previous night came back to him. It was another hour before he dragged himself out of bed, and only then because he needed to piss.

He showered leisurely, taking full advantage of the morning's clear schedule, and although he suspected the queasiness in the pit of his stomach had more to do with Draco than the alcohol, he downed a large hangover potion, just in case.

Feeling listless and in desperate need of a distraction, he made a cup of tea, then fired up the Floo and called Ginny.

"Still no baby?" he asked by way of greeting when she finally answered the call, dressed in the most enormous Harpies t-shirt he'd ever seen.

Ginny sighed. "Nope. I'm so bored! It doesn’t help that Dean’s up to his eyeballs in work – he’s trying to get the new exhibition sorted before I pop," she explained. "I dragged my enormous arse out to the Apothecary yesterday just for twenty seconds of human interaction … ended up getting a tour of the stock room.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Turns out nobody has ever showed such interest in their powdered gillyweed before. I didn’t have the heart to tell them I only needed it for one of Dean’s paint experiments.”

“Oh god,” Harry snorted. "Well at least you have a new career option for when you retire from Quidditch."

"Why wait? I could do both!" she grinned. “Just picture it: me on my Nimbus, the Snitch in one hand and a jar of pickled eyeballs in the other … Anyway, how's the physio going?"

"Really well, actually," Harry said, realising as the words left his mouth how true they were.

"And you're getting along with Malfoy alright?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Turns out everyone was right: he’s a brilliant magi-physio, and nowhere near as much of an arsehole as he was at school. We even went out for drinks last night."

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up into her fringe. “Seriously?”

"I know, it’s mad,” Harry conceded. “We went to a rooftop bar with a couple of his mates and somehow bumped into half the French team."

Ginny leaned in as far as her bump would allow. "Ooh, was Fournier there? I haven't seen her in _ages_."

"No, but Moreau, Dubois and Baudelaire were. We only spoke to Moreau, though. He was _thrilled_ to see Draco," Harry added without thinking.

"What do you mean?" Ginny asked.

"Turns out he and Draco used to go out," Harry said. "He was all over him, it was a bit sickening, to be honest." He thought he'd masked the sour note in his voice, but Ginny's raised eyebrow showed he'd failed miserably.

“It sounds like _someone’s_ a bit jealous…” she said, watching him intently.

“Jealous of what?” Harry asked, the words coming out more defensively than he'd intended.

“Come on, Harry.”

"What?" Harry asked again, still feigning confusion.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You fancy Malfoy, don't you?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat. There it was: the instinctive urge to deny it, to tell Ginny not to be silly. He bit it back. “Would you be okay with that?” he asked after a long pause.

Ginny looked perplexed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry's mouth worked soundlessly as he tried to find the right words. “You know, because we used to be together, and he's…”

To Harry's utter surprise, Ginny burst out laughing: a proper laugh, right from the pit of her stomach. “Oh, Harry," she gasped once she'd calmed down enough to speak. "I hope this doesn’t come as a shock, but I don’t exactly spend my nights crying into my pillow over the end of our little post-school relationship.” She sat back and balanced her hands on the swell of her stomach. “It’s been, what? Eight years?”

Harry grinned. “I thought Dean was just a placeholder to keep your bed warm while you plot a way to win me back.”

"You’ve caught me," Ginny laughed. "I thought, ‘_How best can I show Harry that I’m available?_’, and marrying and having a kid with one of your mates seemed like the most obvious way to do that.”

"Yeah, it was a pretty obvious tactic," Harry teased, lightheaded with relief.

Ginny's laugh turned to a fond smile. "Seriously though, I'm not particularly surprised. You've always been drawn to competence – you know, people who are good at their jobs, or sports..."

Harry reached for his mug, nodding: it was a fair point.

“Also, you’ve always been very obviously bisexual," she added.

Harry almost spat out his mouthful of tea. “Wha—no I haven’t!”

Ginny looked at him, her expression almost pitying. “_Ohhhhh, Cedric Diggory is so handsome, Cho Chang is so pretty, Draco Malfoy is definitely up to something_ ... shall I go on?”

“My voice is nothing like that, and he _was_ up to something!” Harry protested, even as a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“True, but you get my point," Ginny said, waving a dismissive hand. "You’ve had your fair share of crushes on blokes, even if you've always been too busy saving the world or playing Quidditch to explore it properly.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Harry objected.

“Dramatic, but true,” Ginny insisted. “Anyway, it’s fine. I doubt anyone will be shocked, and we'll all love you just the same.”

Harry stopped short at that. He tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Gin. Love you.”

“Love you too, you sappy bugger. I’m supposed to be the teary hormonal one! Now, is there any word on who you’ll be playing in the Final?”

Harry sighed. “No, it could be either Baudelaire or Giroud. You know how the French keep their teamsheets close to their chests."

Ginny's words of acceptance played over and over in his mind as they launched into a detailed analysis of each Seeker's potential tactics, and by the time they ended the call, Harry felt twenty pounds lighter.

~*~*~*~

The remainder of the empty morning dragged by unbearably slowly: by the time one o'clock finally crept around, Harry had already been wearing his flying gear for several hours. At the last minute, he cast an eyesight charm and left his glasses behind. He wasn't sure if it would be necessary – he had no idea how complicated Draco's session plan would be – but decided it was best to be prepared for anything.

He met Draco at the edge of the practice pitch, and immediately felt uncomfortably warm at the sight of him in his well-worn Quidditch leathers. They were almost as distracting as the green leggings.

“No leggings today?” Harry asked teasingly when Draco caught him gawping and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not!” Draco scoffed. “What would I wear in my hotel room if they were ruined? I’d have to lounge around in my underwear!”

Harry couldn’t quite tell if Draco was joking, but the mental image of him wearing only his pants did nothing to unravel the knot of nervous arousal which sat coiled in the pit of Harry’s stomach. Thankfully, his excitement at the prospect of getting back on his broom was enough of a distraction to push the thought to the back of his mind – for the time being, at least.

“Merlin,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“You!” Draco gazed around the pitch, slack-jawed and starry-eyed, in a cruel but undeniably accurate impression of Harry. "You look like a First Year seeing Hogwarts for the first time."

"So?" Harry grinned, casting his eyes up to the hoops, and beyond them, to the cloudless sky. "God, it's good to be back on the pitch."

Draco snorted. "Honestly, anyone would think you've been grounded for a year, not a week!"

Harry ignored the gentle ribbing; given half a chance, he'd have rolled around on the pitch, clutching his broom and burying his face in the neatly trimmed grass. Instead, he watched as Draco summoned a smartly polished crate and withdrew a gleaming red Quaffle.

"We'll only be using this today," Draco said as he locked the other balls away. "We'll spend most of the session on catches – I want to test your hip strength when you lean to catch – but we'll throw in a few flight drills as well to keep things interesting. How does that sound?"

"It sounds brilliant," Harry said, not remotely embarrassed by the eagerness in his voice.

When Draco didn't offer any further details of the session plan, Harry straddled his broom – beaming even more widely when the mount didn’t hurt his hip – and took off without another word. He flew as carefully as his enthusiasm would allow, soaring smoothly, dipping and rising: in any other circumstances, it would have been an unbearably dull flight, but after a week on the ground it was as exhilarating as any cup final chase.

He spun into a lazy corkscrew dive, watching from above as Draco grabbed his Nimbus and joined him in the air. They ran through a gentle warmup of laps and feints, then moved on to a more challenging set of exercises.

To Harry’s surprise, Draco worked him much harder than he’d expected. Harry had almost forgotten that Draco had been a Chaser in the French League just a few years ago: his drill passes were fast, firm and targeted to maximise the amount of reaching Harry needed to do.

When the final practice drills were complete, they touched down in one of the stands for a rest, slumping back in their seats in silence as their breathing returned to normal.

"You really miss it, don't you?" Harry said quietly as they stared out over the pristine pitch.

"What, playing professionally?" Malfoy asked, his eyes fixed on the far side goal hoops. "Of course."

"Was there nothing they could do about your injury?" Harry remembered the back page of Quidditch Weekly from the week after Draco – Malfoy, as Harry had known him back then – had taken a Bludger to the back of the neck; the awful image of him plummeting, unconscious, towards the ground captured in black and white for all eternity.

Draco shook his head, brows knitting together in a contemplative frown. "Not really, no. Spinal injuries aren't so easy to come back from." He turned to face Harry. "All the physio helped, though. I'm pain-free day to day and my work keeps me involved at professional level, even if my days of playing are over."

Harry nodded, wondering how he’d feel in the same position. He didn’t think he’d be so accepting, but then again, Draco had presumably spent a few years coming to terms with it. After a little while he looked back over at Draco, and found Draco’s grey eyes already on him.

"What are you thinking?" Draco asked.

Harry tried to come up with a lie, then decided he may as well be honest. "When Ange suggested bringing you in as my magi-physio, I thought it was the worst idea she’s ever had. I thought it would be awful … you know, given our history. But it’s been fine. I was thinking that you’re nowhere near as much of a dick as you used to be."

Draco burst out laughing; a loud, full, genuine laugh from the pit of his stomach, so unlike his usual chuckle it made Harry’s heart pound a little faster. "Merlin, such flattery!" he gasped. "How can I possibly accept such a compliment?"

"I mean it!” Harry insisted. “You've somehow turned into a decent bloke."

"Thank you," Draco said eventually, flashing Harry a smile which was equal parts mocking and serious. He shifted suddenly, turning to face Harry properly, resting his right arm across the back of Harry’s seat. "You're not so terrible, yourself."

The silence that followed felt unbearably charged, and Draco made no effort to break it. He was watching Harry intently, biting his bottom lip as if he was weighing something up in his mind. Harry didn’t say anything either; he was too preoccupied with the realisation that he and Draco were sitting incredibly close. The training pitch stands were notoriously cramped, yet Draco had chosen to sit right next to Harry, rather than leave an empty seat between them: their thighs were touching from hip to knee. Even more bewildering was Draco’s arm across the seat. If Harry leaned back even a tiny bit, Draco’s arm would be around him again, like last night...

Eventually the tension got the better of Harry. "Come on, let's do a bit more," he suggested gruffly, springing up from his seat.

“All right,” Draco agreed. “I’ll shoot for goals and you can play as Keeper." He removed his wand from its holster and Summoned a Keeper's helmet from the ground below.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do I really need this?"

Draco held it out, smirking. "Probably not, but I'm certainly not taking the risk of giving The Chosen One a concussion right before the World Cup Final."

"Pffft," Harry scoffed, shaking his head. "I don't think you have that strong a shot in you these days!"

"Let's find out, then, _Potter_," Draco sneered in an almost perfect impression of his teenage self, spoiled only by the amusement dancing in his eyes.

It did the trick: the memory of their old rivalry sent a fresh shot of adrenaline through Harry’s veins. He pulled on the helmet and reached for his broom. “Get ready to lose, _Malfoy_.”

Harry quickly came to regret his confidence. Draco was no less competitive – or fit, for that matter – for having retired from professional play. The onslaught of shots was relentless, and Harry, unaccustomed to even handling the Quaffle, let alone guarding the hoops, let in twice as many as he saved.

When they finally finished, both men were dripping with sweat and breathing hard.

"Good job you’re not a Keeper,” Draco gasped as they touched down at the edge of the pitch.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “I’m not really built for it, to be fair. It would be different if I was a bit broader, even if I had more of a Beater’s build. You know,” he added, wondering why he was going there, “like Moreau…”

Draco was giving him that look again: calculating and amused. “It was more your shit technique than your build,” he said after a long pause. “But for what it’s worth, your physique is … well, it’s more than acceptable.”

Harry swallowed hard.

“Anyway, let's get cleaned up before we have a proper debrief," Draco suggested, pushing a sweaty tendril of hair out of his eyes. “I have a few thoughts for tomorrow’s session.”

Harry nodded, equally relieved and disappointed at Draco’s change of subject. He pulled off his helmet and gloves, pausing to run his fingers through his hair in an attempt to stave off the inevitable case of helmet hair. When he looked up, Draco was staring at him again. “What?”

Draco shook his head as if to clear it. “Sorry. I just can't get over how strange you look without your glasses. It's like … I don’t know, like you're naked."

Not for the first time that day, Harry was glad of his post-exercise flush. Thankfully, Draco saved him from having to come up with a response by turning and heading for the changing rooms.

Harry followed him in and set his Nebula down in the broom caddy. The room felt eerie without the bustle and banter of a full team: the hum of the heating charm could be heard, broken only by the echo of their footsteps against the tiled floor.

"Trust the Germans to go all out on the changing rooms," Draco murmured. "You should have seen the state of the Qiberon Quafflepunchers’ changing rooms the season before I retired."

Harry shook his head. “They can't have been as bad as Puddlemere's are now,” he said as he started unlacing his shinpads. “I walked in on Greenway waxing his arse on one of the benches last season. Legs up and spread like a spatchcocked chicken. The wax strips were still on the floor a week later."

Draco shuddered. "Merlin. You win. I somehow suspect that wouldn’t happen here."

Harry looked around as he took off his protective gear and made a start on his boots. From the polished wooden benches to the silver wall hooks and black slate walls, every detail was a sleek display of luxury.

He made the mistake of looking back at Draco just in time to see him pulling off his undershirt, revealing far more pale skin than Harry was ready to see.

Harry’s mouth went dry. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Draco’s chest was streaked with silver scars. Some were light, others dark, but the one which caught Harry’s attention was the one which crossed Draco’s left nipple, tugging the edge of his areola into a point. That tiny detail triggered a jolt of desire so fierce it almost knocked Harry off his feet. More than anything in the world, he wanted to cross the room and touch it, to pinch it between his fingers, to take it into his mouth and see if the scar affected its sensitivity.

After a long moment, Harry tore his gaze away from the scar only for his eyes to roam downwards, taking in the shallow dip of Draco’s belly button, the fine trail of coarse hair beneath it, leading down...

Draco turned away suddenly, interrupting the view. Harry’s disappointment was short-lived, though: the moment he had his back to Harry, Draco dropped his snug-fitting boxers. He strode towards the showers with an easy confidence that made Harry’s head spin, apparently oblivious to the fact that Harry was openly gaping at his arse.

When Draco turned the corner, it was as if a full body bind had been broken. Harry looked down in a daze to find himself almost fully clothed. He stripped quickly as the sound of running water filled the air, leaving his sweaty Quidditch gear in a heap on the floor.

Harry knew he only had a limited amount of time to join Draco in the showers before it started to look weird, but he had a problem: he was hard, and the thought of Draco, stark naked and soaking wet, wasn’t helping.

He tried to distract himself, mentally running through Angelina’s top ten tactical formations; he made it to number seven before a cloud of steam floated out from the shower area, sending his mind wandering back into inappropriate territory and forcing him to start again.

Draco’s voice cut through Harry’s thoughts. “Can you bring my shampoo in? I’ve left it on the bench.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Harry took a deep breath and made one last attempt to will his erection away. Thankfully, the fear of Draco noticing was just enough to banish it for the time being. He grabbed his wash bag and Draco’s shampoo – rolling his eyes at the pink crystal bottle – and rushed through to the showers before it could come back.

When he reached the wet room, Harry turned on a second jet of hot water, leaving a couple of shower heads between them. Not trusting his dick to behave itself, he made a determined effort to only look at Draco from the shoulders up. “Trust you to have special shampoo, you ponce.”

"Excellent hair is just one of the many perks of homosexuality," Draco said lightly, closing his eyes and tipping his head back under the spray.

The word crystalised something between them: an ex-boyfriend was one thing, but the explicit confirmation that Draco was gay somehow made everything more real in Harry's mind.

“Shame I’m only bi, then,” Harry said, aiming for flippancy even as the unfamiliar syllable caught in his throat. “It could have saved me from a lifetime of crap haircuts.”

_That_ caught Draco’s attention. His eyes snapped open and the look he gave Harry was one of undisguised interest: a fierce hunger Harry _definitely_ wasn't prepared for.

Harry's heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest. At a loss for what to do, he held out the fancy shampoo bottle.

Draco stepped out of the spray to take it. "Thank you."

Their fingertips touched for the briefest of moments as Harry passed him the bottle. It was barely a fraction of a second, but the familiar thrill of Draco's magic – more agitated than Harry had ever felt it during their magi-medical massages – gave him goosebumps.

Harry needed to say something, to _do_ something … but then Draco stepped away and started washing his hair as if nothing had happened, leaving Harry reeling with disappointment and relief.

Harry got on with his own shower, stealing glances through the steam as he soaped his body and washed his hair. He was grateful for his vision spell: even though the air was heavy with humidity, he could see perfectly – and what a view it was.

Draco had tilted his head back again to rinse away his shampoo and was standing under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over his shoulders. Harry watched, taking in how the water had darkened Draco’s hair from platinum to gold, before letting his gaze slide down to the shallow notch where Draco’s collarbones met. He wanted to press his lips to it, to bury his face in Draco’s neck, to sink his teeth into Draco’s throat and _suck_, making his mark on that delicate skin...

Harry shivered despite the heat of the water. He knew he should turn away, that any second Draco could open his eyes and catch him staring, but he still couldn’t stop. He looked lower, following the lean lines of Draco’s body downwards, all the way to his cock. His cock, framed by more hair than Harry would have expected, pleasingly thick and jutting forward at an angle which surely had to mean Draco was half hard...

“Enjoying the view, Harry?” Draco asked quietly.

Harry froze. “Wh-what?”

“Look all you like. I'm not shy. I was just wondering if you’re enjoying yourself, that’s all. You look like you are."

Harry gaped, desperately trying to think of an excuse, but coming up with nothing.

Draco didn't seem to expect an answer, though. He closed his eyes again and washed himself leisurely, spending far more time on his chest – and those pale pink nipples – than could possibly be necessary.

It was all Harry could do not to stride over and suck the scarred one; to run his tongue over it, draw it into his mouth, feel Draco's shaky exhale as he sank his teeth into the tender flesh … _fuck_. Harry was hard again and this time, there was nothing he could do about it.

He turned away quickly to face the wall before Draco could notice, only for Draco’s voice to interrupt his panic almost immediately.

“What’s that on your back?”

“What’s what?” Harry asked, craning his neck in an unsuccessful attempt to look over his shoulder whilst keeping his hips turned resolutely towards the wall.

Draco came closer and prodded the small of Harry’s back with a fingertip. “It looks like a bruise, but it’s a strange shape…”

Harry’s stomach jolted, partly from Draco’s unexpected jab but mainly at the memory of the night before: the sharp hotel door handle digging in as he desperately palmed his cock, wanking frantically to the thought of Draco in his green leggings after the evening at Klunkerkranich...

“I uhh, tripped,” Harry lied. “I fell back against the door when I got back last night.”

“I knew you were pissed,” Draco smirked. “It was obvious.”

“What made it obvious?” Harry heard himself ask, suddenly nervous. His neck was starting to hurt from looking back over his shoulder, but turning round was out of the question.

“The fact that you dropped the martyr act and let me Side-Along you home without a fight, for a start,” Draco said. “But mostly the way you were staring at me like I was a treacle tart.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He turned back to face the wall; he couldn’t bear to make eye contact. “I—what?”

"A treacle tart _with custard_." Draco stepped closer still; his breath tickled the back of Harry’s neck. "And the way you practically killed poor Raph on the spot with your Basilisk glare only served to provide further evidence … you’re usually far too polite for a stunt like that..."

Draco’s lips were touching Harry’s neck now, the words dancing over Harry’s skin in a maddening tease, and when he finished speaking, he didn’t pull away. He mouthed at the sensitive spot behind Harry’s ear, grazing it with his teeth, humming in approval as Harry’s head fell back against him, granting better access, then – _ohhh!_ – he pulled Harry back against him with a strength Harry should have expected but which took him completely by surprise.

The move sent a rush of heat straight to Harry’s cock. No one had _ever_ pulled him around like that – perhaps because he’d never been kissed by someone taller – but he knew in an instant that he’d been missing out.

Draco didn’t give Harry so much as a second to recover. He wrapped his arms tightly around Harry’s waist and chest, magic thrumming beneath his fingertips as he explored Harry’s body, all the while kissing and sucking at Harry’s neck as if trying to devour him.

“Is this what you wanted last night, Harry?” he whispered in Harry’s ear.

Harry felt Draco's cock nudge his arse; after all his efforts to hide his arousal, it turned out he wasn't the only one who was hard.

“I—”

Draco’s fingers crept teasingly down Harry’s stomach, slipping easily over his wet skin. “Did you want me to touch you?”

“Draco, what are you—?” But the rest of Harry’s question was lost as Draco’s fist closed around his prick, wiping his mind blank with an onslaught of pleasure. “Fuck, _nnnghhhh!!!_”

Harry arched up into Draco’s grip, his eyes falling shut as he gave himself over to fucking Draco’s fist right there under the spray of the shower. He needed this desperately, it was all he’d thought of for over a week and it felt so good … but at the same time, it wasn't quite right. Harry needed to _see_ Draco, to watch for one of his wicked grins as he took Harry apart, and that just wasn’t possible with Draco standing behind him.

Draco’s hand slowed as he realised Harry had stilled. "What's wrong?"

Harry decided actions were better than words. He didn’t answer, just gently nudged Draco’s hand away, and turned smoothly within the circle of his arms so they were facing one another. It was enough to get the point across: a quiet "_oh_" escaped Draco’s lips as Harry leaned in to kiss him.

Draco kissed Harry back almost chastely, and for a while they didn’t take it further. They snogged leisurely beneath the spray, cloaked in the humid air, with clouds of steam rising all around them. It was enough, until all of a sudden it wasn't. In an instant the kiss turned frantic, Harry tangling his fingers in Draco’s wet hair, tugging at the longer locks on top, dragging his fingernails over the short sides as Draco nipped at his lips, plunging his tongue into Harry’s mouth with a hunger that left them both panting.

That was all it took for Harry’s willpower to break. He stepped closer without breaking the kiss, bringing their bodies flush together, his stomach twisting with anticipation as he felt Draco’s hard cock against his hip.

He let out a low, desperate groan against Draco’s lips as he thrust forward, powerless to resist the lust roaring through his veins. Draco’s skin was slick and warm, and the movement pulled Harry’s foreskin back just enough...

“This is _aaahhh_, very unprofessional,” Draco murmured into the hollow of Harry’s throat, sounding almost pained. "I, _mmmh_, may not have mentioned, but I make a point of not getting involved with my clients."

Harry’s mind reeled as he tried to ignore how good Draco’s body felt against his prick and consider what Draco was saying. “Aren’t you technically working for the England Quidditch Team?”

"How slippery of you," Draco conceded with a smirk. "I approve, but the point remains."

Harry understood, but he wasn’t ready to give up. He pulled Draco even closer and kissed him hungrily, taking Draco’s acceptance of the kiss as his cue to nudge them both back a few paces, so they were still under the shower but Draco’s back was pressed against the tiled wall.

With Draco in position, Harry pulled back just enough that their noses stayed in contact. “Can’t you make an exception? Just this once?”

“...Maybe just this once,” Draco murmured.

It was exactly what Harry needed to hear. He picked up their kiss where they’d left off, swallowing Draco’s gasp and tracing his fingers over Draco’s stomach, trailing them outwards across the ridges of Draco’s hip bones and around his sides. It felt so good that, in a moment of confidence, he grabbed Draco’s arse and pulled him closer still, trying to grind against him, but with their bodies so slick with soapy water, there was barely any friction to be found.

Even without the friction he craved, the thought of what his teammates would think if they walked in to find him and Draco rutting against one another in the communal showers pushed Harry over the edge embarrassingly quickly. He let his head fall forward onto Draco's shoulder as he came, inhaling the luxurious scent of posh shampoo as his cock throbbed, spurting his release between their bodies.

“_Fuck_, I don’t know what happened there – I mean, I don’t normally come that easily,” Harry babbled, mortified the instant his pleasure subsided. It was true, but even as he spoke, Harry cringed; it was exactly what someone who came that quickly every time would say.

“Shush,” Draco said, pushing him lightly away. “Doesn’t matter.” Harry stepped back, overcome with toe-curling shame. He was about to turn and leave the showers when when he realised what Draco was doing.

Harry watched on, eyes wide, as Draco finished himself off. His wanking technique was nothing like Harry’s; he moved his hand slowly, squeezing himself, twisting his wrist at the top of each stroke, his left hand dipping lower to cradle his balls.

It was hypnotising to watch, and Harry wasn’t anywhere near ready to stop staring when Draco hissed with pleasure, hips stuttering as his orgasm hit, never taking his eyes off Harry’s face.

“Fuck," Harry sighed, when he’d given Draco a bit of time to recover. "That was… _god_.”

"It really was," Draco agreed, still a little out of breath. “Any pain?" he added mildly as he stepped back under the spray, letting the water flow over his skin, washing away the evidence of what had just happened. "In your hip, I mean?"

Harry thought about it. "Erm, no,” he said, surprised.

Draco's smile widened. "Good. We should probably get out of the water before we both end up looking like Freshwater Plimpies."

Harry inspected his wrinkled fingers and grimaced. “I think I’m already there.”

Draco snickered as he left the showers, leaving Harry once again to follow after him.

The silence back in the main changing room wasn’t as awkward as Harry might have expected. Unsure what to say, he dressed slowly, stealing glances at Draco whenever he could. More often than not, Draco was looking right back at him.

“I meant what I said, you know," Draco said eventually, as he buttoned up his shirt and swept his damp hair back, pushing it out of his eyes.

Harry stopped what he was doing in an instant, leaving his jeans unfastened as he turned to face Draco properly. “What?”

“I don’t get sexually involved with my clients," Draco said. "It's a recipe for disaster, not to mention it wouldn’t sit well with my Healer's ethical declaration.”

Disappointment washed over Harry like the chill of a Dementor, constricting his chest and sending his mood – so positive just moments ago – spiralling downwards. "Right. Got it," he mumbled, looking down to avoid eye contact.

"That said, you won't be my client come Friday evening," Draco added lightly. "So if you're still interested then, I'm sure we can work something out."

Harry blinked. "Yeah? I'd like that.”

"So would I. Shall we agree to talk about it once our final session is over?” Draco suggested as he packed the last of his things into his holdall.

Harry pretended to think about it for a moment. “That sounds good to me.”

Draco grinned. “Excellent. Well, I’ll see you here tomorrow for more flight drills, and I’ll do my very best not to blow your mind with my irresistible sex appeal.”

“Piss off,” Harry snorted, though he was secretly relieved at the way Draco’s joke instantly unwound the tension. He watched, still chuckling, as Draco left the changing room, convinced that he was exaggerating the sway of his hips on purpose.

~*~*~*~

Despite Harry’s best efforts, Draco stayed true to his word for the rest of the week. They flew every day, but aside from a few heated looks and charged silences, Draco was the consummate professional, and offered no direct acknowledgement whatsoever of the events that had taken place in the showers.

It was unbearably frustrating, to the extent that Harry found himself flirting deliberately for the first time in his life: on Thursday, he even found himself asking Draco to correct his grip on his broom. Draco seemed happy to play along – he moved Harry’s hands a few millimeters along the handle of his Nebula, rather than telling Harry that he was a professional Quidditch player and should definitely know how to handle a broom – but he didn’t lean in for a kiss, as Harry had hoped he would.

Post-training showers were particularly torturous. Harry knew the logical option was to freshen up back at his hotel room, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see Draco naked again, even if a repeat of Monday’s events was off the table for the time being. Draco seemed equally keen to shower at the pitchside, so each afternoon they spent an indecent amount of time in the swanky black-tiled shower room, washing far more slowly and thoroughly than anyone could possibly need to.

Harry had no doubt that Draco was going out of his way to put on a show – and it was one Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from. Each afternoon, he stared until his eyes stung as Draco soaped the hollows of his underarms, rinsed the scattering of silver scars across his chest, turned beneath the spray to offer Harry an uninterrupted view of his arse…

That alone would have been enough to drive Harry crazy, but there was more: every time they showered together, Draco was hard. The sight of Draco’s cock, dauntingly thick and jutting indecently up towards the ceiling, was somehow as tempting as it was terrifying, and Harry found himself powerless to prevent his own body from responding.

When the temptation grew too intense, Harry would try to distract himself by doing his best to copy Draco’s seductive shower moves. He knew the effect couldn’t be half as good as when Draco did it, but as silly as he felt, Draco didn’t ever make fun of him. In fact, he watched just as intently as Harry watched him, cheeks pink, lips slightly parted, as if Harry was the best thing he’d ever seen.

Each day, Harry was sure Draco would snap and push him up against the shower wall again, but he never did. All in all, the week was shaping up to be one of the most frustrating of Harry’s life.

He didn't have too much spare time to dwell on his frustration, though: his diary was suddenly jam-packed again now that Draco had given official signoff for him to rejoin any team training sessions which didn’t coincide with their physio appointments.

Terry watched each training session from the Manager’s box, bellowing instructions and having both Harry and Morris run through every single one of the team’s seemingly endless list of tactical plays.

With his hip feeling almost back to normal and Angelina throwing the whole weight of her captaincy behind getting Harry back on the starting team, Harry was starting to wonder if Draco's relentless optimism had been right all along. Even flying with a dash of caution, he was convinced he was doing at least as well as Morris – if not better.

Harry's glimmer of hope stayed with him, like an invisible Patronus, right until the morning before the Final. Terry had never made them wait so late to find out who had made the team, but unusually, nobody complained about it: everyone knew he was holding out in the hope that Harry would be ready.

When the team arrived for the final team practice session, the list was finally up on the changing room wall. Harry dashed over before anyone else could get to it, searching frantically for his name … and finding it. Harry's heart leaped to see his name on the team sheet, only to plummet at red "R" beside it.

He was still processing what it meant as his teammates jostled around him, checking their own fate. The room was silent for a long moment as everyone craned to see the list, then a furious shout pierced the air.

“What the _fuck_, Terry?!”

The whole team looked over at Angelina, then spun to see Terry standing shiftily in the doorway. Angelina’s temper was legendary, but so was Terry’s stubbornness; this had the potential to be good. She stormed over to him, hands on hips, looking absolutely outraged.

“Why is Harry down as the reserve?”

If Terry was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. “You know exactly why,” he said calmly, looking over to the rest of the team rather than answering Angelina directly. “Harry’s been flying well, but he’s still recovering from an injury, and Morris is fully match fit. It’s the logical way to play it.”

Angelina didn’t look reassured. In fact, she looked as though she’d eaten a mouthful of pepper imps: Harry half expected to see steam coming out of her ears. “Don’t you get it?” she seethed. “If Harry doesn’t play, we’re going to _lose_!”

“Johnson, shut it,” Terry said sharply. “You’re being disrespectful to Morris. If you have an issue with the team selection, we can discuss it privately.”

Angelina’s scowl deepened. “Oh, we will! I—”

“Ange, it’s fine,” Harry interrupted, conscious that poor Morris looked as though she was about to burst into tears on what should have been one of the best days of her career. He walked over to Angelina and Terry, and added quietly, “Well, it’s not _fine_, but knocking Morris’s confidence is only going to make it worse.”

“I’m sorry Harry,” Terry said, looking genuinely upset. "You've recovered brilliantly, but it's just too big a risk.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Harry nodded, hoping his attempt at a smile looked more genuine than it felt. “Thanks for giving me the reserve spot, I appreciate it.” He turned to Angelina. “Come on, let’s forget about this for a bit and have a good training session … we can try to build Morris back up a bit.”

Angelina sighed and summoned her broom, beckoning for the team to follow her out onto the pitch. Harry followed, still trying to keep up some semblance of a smile. For once in his life, the Quidditch pitch was the last place he wanted to be.

***

When Harry made it back to his hotel suite after training, it wasn’t Ginny he called, but Draco.

“Harry? Is something wrong?” Draco asked, peering into the Floo, clearly looking for any sign that Harry had hurt himself during the team training session.

“No, it’s…” Harry frowned, trying to put how he felt into words. “Terry’s finally put the team sheet up and they’re playing me as reserve.”

Draco watched him through the flames, his expression carefully neutral. “That’s precisely what we were aiming for,” he said. “I’d say it’s an excellent result … so why do you look like you’ve been bitten by a werewolf?”

Harry shrugged. “I just … I don’t know…”

Draco waited.

When he realised Draco wasn’t going to say anything, Harry tried again. “I know I’ve got no right to be disappointed – I get that it’s a miracle I’ve made the team at all, let alone as first reserve, but … you know.”

“I do know, but you’re being a tosser,” Draco said, his tone more gentle than Harry would have believed he was capable of. “After your injury you shouldn’t even be on a broom for the next few weeks, let alone making the first reserve slot for the national team in the biggest game of the century.”

Harry sighed. “You’re right. I know you are, but it still feels like shit. It's almost worse than not being on the team at all.”

“I understand, but try to keep a bit of perspective,” Draco suggested, thoughtfully twisting a lock of blond hair between two fingers. “Besides, you never know what might happen. Morris could take a Bludger to the head in the first minute.” He shrugged. “Let’s face it, it’d be pretty true to form.”

Harry’s laugh burst from him before he could stop it. “That’s cruel and you know it,” he said, though the reprimand came out far less sharply than he’d intended.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Well I, for one, will be willing _both_ Bludgers towards her from the stands… What? Oh, come on, you know as well as I do that she’s a dreadful Seeker! When did she last make a winning catch in an international match?”

Harry thought about it. “Well, there was the match against Belgium last year when I had the flu … oh, but that ended the game with a loss.”

“Case in point,” Draco said smugly. “Has she ever made a winning catch?”

Harry tried to think of even one instance where Morris had won them a match, but came up short. He buried his head in his hands. “We’re doomed.”

Draco shook his head. “No we’re not, but even if we were, whinging about it over the Floo isn’t going to change anything. Do you still want to go ahead with this afternoon’s session, or have you completely given up and booked a Portkey back to England?”

“Nope, I’ll see you at the training pitch at two,” Harry confirmed.

“Excellent. Don’t wear the—”

“—Snitch joggers, I know,” Harry finished. “Arsehole.”

***

As promised, Harry didn’t wear his Snitch joggers to the final physio season. Having carried out a bit of research and pulled a few strings with the kit sponsors, he’d managed to get hold of something far better – and _much_ tighter.

The idea had seemed like a brilliant one when he’d had it, but with the big reveal upon him, Harry was starting to have doubts. He’d made sure to arrive in the changing rooms before Draco, and as he looked at himself in one of the long mirrors, he decided he’d never felt so ridiculous in all his life.

Despite being made by the same manufacturer, Harry’s brand new Snitch leggings couldn’t have looked more different to Draco’s green pair. For a start, Harry’s legs were nothing like Draco's. The lycra emphasised his knobbly knees, made his quads look huge, and the way the fabric clung to his backside was absolutely indecent. The pattern didn't help matters, either: whoever had taken Harry’s pattern request as an excuse to put a large fluttering Snitch on each arse cheek clearly had a particularly cruel sense of humour.

Just as Harry was on the verge of abandoning his plan altogether, Draco strode in, all business as usual, only to drop his holdall on the floor.

"_Potter?!_" It was more of a strangled squeak than a question.

"Oh, hi Draco,” Harry said, as casually as he could manage. “Are we back to using last names?"

Draco swallowed and pointed at Harry's thighs in disbelief. "Wh-what in Merlin’s name are those?"

Harry shrugged, determined to keep his body language relaxed even though his pulse was racing. "These? Oh, I thought I’d give the leggings a go. Yours seemed so practical during our yoga sessions.” He turned, giving Draco a look at them from all angles, biting the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from laughing as Draco literally gasped at the arse Snitches. "What do you think?"

Draco’s eyes were glassy. He stared for a moment longer before coming back to himself. “I think you’re trying to kill me,” he muttered. “Or yourself, for that matter."

Harry blinked. "What?"

Draco shook his head as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "Well, how am I supposed to focus on providing you with proper medical advice when you look like that?”

"Like what?" Harry asked, delighted that Draco was playing along.

"Like a great big Snitch-emblazoned distraction!" Draco burst out, pointing accusingly at Harry.

"I'm a distraction?"

"Merlin, yes. You're the biggest distraction I've ever met." He looked Harry up and down once more, as if trying to make a decision. "Take them off,” he ordered. “Immediately.”

Harry looked down, doing his best to look helpless. “Well, the thing is … I’m not sure I can. I might need some help.”

Draco looked genuinely alarmed. “What are you talking about? Please tell me you didn't use magic to get them on.”

“No, nothing like that," Harry said. "They’re just really tight – it took me ages to get into them. If they're as hard to get off as they were to get on, I might be stuck.” He turned, trying not to give away how ridiculous he felt as he bent forward, showing off the curve of his arse to maximum effect. “I mean, look! Look how _tight_ they are!”

When Harry turned back to face him, Draco looked as though he needed to sit down. “Merlin." He took a few deep breaths. "Fine, leave them on. You really will be the death of me, Harry Potter."

"Brilliant." Harry grabbed his broom and dashed out to the pitch, making sure to pause in the doorway to give Draco another eyeful.

With Project Lycra having turned out to be such a huge success, Harry was sure the highlight of his day had passed, but the pitch session went so well that whilst in the air, he almost forgot his disappointment at not making the Final's starting squad.

He and Draco soared around the pitch at top velocity, practicing complicated dives and using Quaffles, Snitches and even tennis balls to practice a few risky stretch catches that Harry usually only attempted at peak fitness.

Even though they'd been getting along so well over the past couple of weeks, a shred of their old rivalry had apparently survived, and it revealed itself from time to time in shows of ruthless competitiveness. Far from distracting them from their work, it added a hint of fun to every exercise they did – Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard on the pitch.

When they finally landed, it was after tea time and the warmth of the summer sun was just beginning to ebb. Harry realised as he dismounted his Nebula that his hip felt completely fine, though it was hard to tell if that was partly the result of the post-flight endorphins. He mentioned as much to Draco, only for his stomach to turn a somersault at Draco’s victorious grin.

They headed for the changing rooms as usual, where it quickly became apparent that Harry really _did_ need Draco to help him out of his leggings. After several attempts at removing them by himself, all Harry had to show for his efforts was a red mark where the waistband kept snapping back into place.

“Come here,” Draco offered, shaking his head.

Harry moved over to where Draco was standing and leaned forward, resting his hands on the polished wooden bench while Draco pulled at the waistband from behind. It took a few more tries – at one point Draco even suggested they might have to _cut_ the damn things off – but eventually the leggings came down over Harry’s hips and thighs.

“Thanks,” Harry said as he pulled them off and dropped them in a heap on the floor.

Draco’s gaze flitted down to the leggings and then back up to look Harry in the eye. "You’re welcome.” A hungry-looking smile spread across his face. “It looks like my work here is done.” He pulled off his training top without ever taking his eyes off Harry and waited.

"Is that it, then?" Harry asked, nerves suddenly clouding his excitement. "I’m officially not your client any more?”

“You're not my client and I'm not your magi-physio," Draco confirmed.

"So…" Harry trailed off. He knew exactly what he wanted, but he had no idea how to ask for it.

Luckily, Draco was less awkward; he burst out laughing at Harry’s conflicted expression. "Are you debating whether to proposition me?”

"Maybe,” Harry admitted. “There’s no need to look so surprised,” he added, as Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought it would be obvious after, you know ... what happened on Monday.”

"I am a bit surprised, actually,” Draco said, though he mostly looked amused. “For some reason, I expected you to be one of those arseholes who abstains from sex before a big match."

"Nope," Harry confirmed, a little too hastily. "And even if I was, I think I'd have made an exception. Just this once."

"Well, you certainly know how to make a man feel special," Draco teased. He watched Harry expectantly as he took off the rest of his clothes, smirking as Harry belatedly did the same.

When they were both naked, the slowness with which things were unfolding finally became too much for Harry to bear. He cleared his throat, not quite trusting his voice. "Shower?"

Draco nodded. "Definitely."

Harry led the way through to the shower room, trying to focus on the cool floor tiles beneath his bare feet rather than the fact that he was well on his way to being hard. It didn’t help, and any effect the distraction did have vanished immediately when Draco chose the shower right next to his, rather than leaving the usual gap between them.

For a while the shower followed the same pattern as usual: they washed in silence, soothing their aching muscles beneath the hot water, eyeing each other through the steam as they scrubbed away the residue of their training session.

Harry closed his eyes to shampoo his hair, starting to relax now that it was clear there was no immediate pressure for him to make a move. Then, as he leaned away from the stream of water, his heart skipped a beat as he felt fingers other than his own against his scalp.

“Mmm, that’s nice,” Harry sighed, letting his own hands fall away.

Draco hummed approvingly and started to massage Harry’s scalp, taking far more care than Harry ever did to untangle the knots in his hair, gently kneading the sensitive spots at his temples.

It felt incredible – perhaps even better than the previous week’s massages. Harry was powerless to do anything other than stand there, unable even to apologise for his body’s completely inappropriate response, though he knew there was no way Draco hadn’t seen his erection.

Eventually Draco coaxed Harry back under the water, using one hand to shield his eyes from the soapy water while rinsing the shampoo away with the other, almost causing Harry’s knees to buckle when he dragged his fingernails slowly over Harry’s scalp, all the way to the nape of his neck.

“Thanks,” Harry breathed when Draco finally guided his head back out of the shower. He opened his eyes, but before he could focus properly on Draco’s face, Draco pushed him against the shower wall and kissed him fiercely, his tongue hot in Harry’s mouth.

It instantly took Harry back to his memory of Monday, and confirmed that his recollection was right: Draco was an _excellent_ kisser. He kissed Harry like he wanted to devour every inch of him, giving Harry no option but to submit to him, to gasp desperately into Draco’s mouth, perfectly happy for him to him have his way.

“I’ve needed this all week,” Draco muttered when they stopped to catch their breath. “And I could honestly kill you for wearing those fucking leggings.”

Harry considered apologising, but he wasn’t sorry at all. He tried to come up with something witty to say instead, but then Draco dropped to his knees and banished the possibility of Harry saying anything at all.

Draco swept his wet hair back and looked up at him, wearing the same competitive glint in his eyes as he had earlier on the pitch. “Ready? I should warn you, I’m even better at this than I am at head massages.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Harry breathed. “And yeah,” he added, a little hastily, “I’m ready.”

Draco smirked. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Harry shifted his shoulders so his head was between the two showers; the last thing he needed was to drown midway through the blowjob he’d been fantasising about for the past fortnight.

When he looked back down, Draco’s lips were almost touching his cock. He looked up at Harry with wide eyes, his expression almost innocent, then took the head of Harry's cock into his mouth.

The pleasure was instant and overwhelming. Harry knew it was mainly because it was _Draco Malfoy_ who was sucking his cock, but there was no denying Draco knew what he was doing. He had all the moves – deep throating, plenty of eye contact, not to mention a maddeningly good tongue-flicking technique which had Harry seeing stars – and he sucked Harry with more enthusiasm than anyone ever had before.

Harry's orgasm built embarrassingly quickly. He was about to tell Draco to stop, that it felt too good, when Draco pulled back of his own accord.

“Spread your legs a bit,” he told Harry.

Harry did, his eyes falling shut as Draco flicked his tongue gently over the very tip of his cock, then, without ever faltering in his rhythm, Draco slipped a hand between Harry’s legs and pushed a finger inside him, stroking, curving it, searching for—_ohhhh!_

Before Harry could catch his breath, Draco took his cock further into his mouth and _sucked_, and Harry was gone. He clawed at the cool tiles behind him, searching for something to hold onto but finding nothing, twisting his fingers in Draco’s hair instead. He couldn't keep still, couldn't stop himself from arching his hips, thrusting forward into Draco's mouth, and all too soon he felt his balls draw tight...

“Fuck, Draco," he gasped, "I’m – ahhhh! – c-coming!”

At first Harry thought Draco hadn’t heard his warning, but at the last second he pulled back, turning his face to let Harry’s come smear his cheek, still nudging a fingertip insistently against Harry’s prostate until the last pulse of his orgasm had subsided.

When Draco gently withdrew his finger, Harry leaned back against the wall, gasping for breath. "God," Harry said shakily. “That was … _fuck_.”

Draco stood up slowly, grinning victoriously. “Good. That’s precisely what I was aiming for.” He looked at Harry as he ducked under one of the showers, letting the water slowly wash away the streak of Harry's come from his face.

Once he was clean, he switched off the water. "Come on, let's get dry," he said.

"What about you?" Harry asked, glancing down at Draco's hard cock.

“I think we’ll be better off picking this up somewhere drier – I don’t particularly want to shrivel up more than I already have.” Draco held up a hand to inspect his fingers. He shuddered, then wandlessly Summoned two towels from the rack by the shower room doorway.

Once they were back in the main changing room, Draco passed one to Harry and dried himself quickly – so quickly that Harry was still staring, dripping wet and clutching the second towel, when he'd finished.

“Come here,” Draco said, reaching out to take back the second towel. Harry let him, his mind still reeling a little from the blowjob.

Instead of rushing like he had with himself, Draco took his time drying Harry, rubbing and patting every inch of his body with the fluffy white towel. Harry was taken aback by the care, the petting, Draco was subjecting him to. He felt so relaxed he could have fallen asleep standing up.

“Now get dressed,” Draco said when he eventually put the towel down. “Unless you need me to help you with that, too?”

“No, I think I can manage,” Harry grinned. He stuffed his things into his bag and pulled on his clean clothes, barely able to contain his own sniggering as he tied the drawstring of the now-infamous Snitch joggers.

Draco stared at him for a long moment. “There are a thousand things I’d like to say right now, but I’m going to rise above it.” He took a deep breath and held out a hand. "I've seen quite enough of your slovenly hotel room, so shall we go back to mine?"

"Yeah, sounds good," Harry said. He grabbed Draco's hand and squeezed it.

Draco looked down at their interlaced fingers with an uncharacteristically sappy smile on his face, then suddenly came back to himself and Side-Alonged them to the Apparition Point closest to his hotel.

When they materialised, Harry could immediately see that Draco was staying in a part of the city he hadn’t seen before. They turned a corner onto a wide, tree-lined street, with stately old-fashioned buildings rising up on either side. It was surprisingly quiet – a far cry from the bustle of Harry’s temporary home in the Mitte district.

Draco pointed to a particularly grand-looking building. “This is us," he said.

The hotel lobby was intimidatingly posh and intimately lit, with intricate ceiling designs surrounding each of the huge chandeliers. Draco's suite was equally opulent, though it was a lot smaller than Harry's. It was also incredibly tidy. Harry immediately felt better about Draco criticising his messiness: Draco was clearly a neat freak.

"This is really nice," Harry murmured as he took in the view of the city from one of the floor-length windows. It was later than Harry had realised; the summer sun was beginning to fade, leaving a patel-blue sky behind, and a few of the cars down below already had their lights on.

"You should see the bedroom," Draco smirked.

“Yeah,” Harry said distractedly, still looking down at the street outside.

Draco cleared his throat and moved towards the open door at the back of the living room. "I'm serious. Come on."

Harry blinked, then rushed to follow Draco as he realised what he was suggesting. The view was good, but it wasn't good enough to miss out on seeing Draco naked again.

As soon as Harry entered the bedroom, Draco pushed him down onto the widest bed he’d ever seen.

“What kind of bed is this?” he asked as Draco settled on top of him. “Super king size?”

“Emperor,” Draco corrected him, shifting so he was straddling Harry’s hips.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. Only the best for Lord Malfoy, right?”

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco muttered, but his tone was affectionate and when his lips came down to meet Harry’s, they were warm and welcoming.

Even though he’d come barely half an hour before, the kiss coupled with the weight of Draco on top of him was enough to re-awaken Harry’s interest.

He tugged Draco’s top up and over his head, then awkwardly took off his own.

“Let’s get rid of this monstrous crime against fashion,” Draco teased as he threw the Snitch joggers into the far corner of the room.

They finished undressing, then Draco settled down next to Harry on the crisp white bedding

He started to tease Harry’s cock with gentle movements, gently moving his foreskin, coaxing him back to being fully hard.

It didn’t take long before Harry was arching up into his grip, squirming against the sheets, desperate to come as if the events of their shower had never taken place.

Draco looked delighted by Harry's desperation; he kept Harry maddeningly close to the edge, teetering on the cusp of orgasm for longer than Harry

Just as Harry reached the point of begging, Draco moved his hand away abruptly and sat up.

"You bastard," Harry breathed.

"You don't mean that,” Draco grinned. “Unless you want me to stop?”

"No, I didn't mean it," Harry backtracked. "Don't stop."

“Good. What would you like to do now?”

Harry sat up and thought about it for a long moment. He couldn’t think of an eloquent way to put it, so he opted for action instead: he pushed Draco down onto his back, settling between his thighs. "This okay for you?"

"What, bottoming?" Draco asked.

"Yeah.” Harry steeled himself, figuring he may as well warn Draco about his lack of experience. “It’s just, I haven’t done this before – with a bloke, I mean – so I’d be more comfortable like this,” he explained, his face prickling with heat at the admission.

Draco waited patiently through Harry’s stammering, then reached up to run a hand through Harry’s unruly hair. “The idea of lying back and letting you do all the work is more than fine with me," he smirked. "Besides, this time we even have a medical reason for it. It can be our final test of your recovery."

"Hip thrusts," Harry snorted despite himself, the sound bursting from him a little more vigorously than he expected in his relief at Draco’s understanding.

"Mmm. Don't hold back, we need to test them properly," Draco teased, rolling his hips against Harry’s in such a way that Harry instantly forgot what was so funny.

“How do you want me?” he asked.

“On your back,” Harry said firmly. He may not have had any proper experience with another man, but he still had a few moves that translated. “Yeah, like that. Now pull your knees up,” Harry ordered, feeling a little more confident.

Draco pulled them all the way up to his chest with ease, reminding Harry fleetingly of the flexibility he’d shown during their yoga sessions. This was far less innocent, of course: Draco’s balls were right in front of Harry, not to mention the position fully exposed his furled pink hole.

Harry leaned lower and gave Draco’s arse a long, slow lick, feeling slightly giddy when Draco gasped and pushed back against him, clearly surprised. Harry took the movement as encouragement and spread Draco's arse, giving himself greater access, and set about taking Draco apart. He nuzzled and sucked, teasing the sensitive nerves surrounding Draco’s hole.

When Draco moaned his name, Harry’s courage surged. He pushed the tip of his tongue into Draco's hole, eliciting a series of low, needy groans that had him reaching down to squeeze the base of his own cock

“Harry, _more_,” Draco demanded, reaching down to hold his arse cheeks apart.

Harry was struggling to breathe properly, but the last thing he wanted to do was stop. He fucked Draco with his tongue, pushing it in as far as he could, gently working the tight ring of muscle until it started to give.

By that point, he had to pull away for breath. He ignored Draco’s furious protest and took the opportunity to ask a question. "Have you got any—"

"Lube?" Draco interrupted. He reached blindly for his bedside drawer and, after a moment of fumbling, passed an almost-empty bottle to Harry.

Any other time, Harry would have seized the opportunity to take the piss, but this just wasn’t the moment for it. He kept his mouth shut and slicked his fingers then let a few drops fall directly onto Draco’s arse, biting his bottom lip as Draco’s hole twitched needily.

Unable and unwilling to wait even a second longer, Harry pushed a finger inside Draco, surprised at the lack of resistance as he eased it all the way in. “Is that okay?” he asked, not daring to move until Draco gave him the go ahead.

“It will be if you add another,” Draco breathed, still managing to sound snarky even with one of Harry’s fingers buried in his arse.

Harry did as he was told. He pushed two fingers deep inside Draco, his own prick tingling at the tightness of Draco’s body around them. He set a slow rhythm, pushing them in and out, twisting at the deepest point and listening to Draco’s whimpers and moans. Harry’s confidence was growing, he was really getting into this when—

"Stop!" Draco gasped, jerking his hips away so violently Harry's fingers slipped out of him.

"Not good?" Harry asked, instantly panicking that he’d done something to hurt him.

Draco shook his head frantically. "Far _too_ good – I won’t forgive myself if I come before you have the chance to fuck me,” he said breathlessly.

Harry looked him up and down, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. There was no denying that Draco _looked_ ready to be fucked. His chest was flushed a blotchy pink, his pale pink nipples visibly stiff, his prick desperately hard and leaking pre-come onto his pale stomach.

Harry slicked his cock with lube, barely resisting the temptation to wank as he did so – a temptation that wasn’t helped at all by the sight of Draco holding his knees up to his chest again, revealing the swollen pink rim of his hole.

The moment he’d finished with the lube, Harry climbed on top of Draco and lined himself up, bracing himself against the urge to push inside and start fucking him _hard_. He knew from past experience with girlfriends that the most important part of anal sex was to start slowly, but Draco didn’t give him the chance for that.

Once they were in position, Draco grabbed Harry’s arse and pulled their bodies firmly together, his eyes briefly falling shut as the head of Harry’s prick disappeared inside him more easily than Harry could have imagined was possible.

Harry bit down on his bottom lip, bracing himself against the onslaught of pleasure as he followed Draco’s lead and eased in deeper. He paused just once while Draco relaxed into the stretch, then,

“There,” Draco whispered once Harry was fully inside him. “This is the part where you move,” he added when Harry stayed still, waiting for Draco to give him the go ahead.

“Shut up,” Harry laughed breathlessly. “I wanted to be sure you were comfortable!”

Before Draco could offer him any more advice, Harry tried a few shallow thrusts, his pulse racing at how tight Draco’s arse felt around his cock.

Draco, it seemed, wasn’t in any mood to take things slowly. He arched his back to meet each thrust, then using his hands on Harry’s hips, set a quick, _deep_ rhythm that made Harry’s head spin.

In no time at all, it was all too much. Draco’s arse was too slick, his body too warm, and his sharp teeth against Harry’s neck felt too dangerously good for Harry to bear. He knew he didn’t stand a chance of making this last, and decided that the least he could do was pull Draco over the edge along with him.

Harry forced his hand between their bodies, running his thumbnail over Draco's sensitive slit in time with each thrust as he fucked him hard. Harry’s movements were clumsy, but they had the desired effect: Draco's body tightened beneath him, his arse clutching at Harry's cock as he came with a choked gasp.

Harry kept his hand around Draco’s cock until Draco pushed it away, then wiped the come on the sheets and carried on fucking him at the same relentless pace as before. His balls had already drawn up when Draco turned his head so they were eye to eye, their noses almost touching. "Come on, Harry," he murmured, his voice rough and needy. "Fill me up."

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry hissed as Draco’s words pushed him beyond the point of no return. His orgasm tore through him, unstoppable and desperately intense. Harry buried his face against Draco’s neck in an attempt to stifle his moans but it made no difference at all, and Draco didn’t seem to mind one bit.

When the pleasure finally started to ebb, Harry collapsed onto Draco, panting hard. His prick was so sensitive he hardly dared to move, but thankfully Draco seemed to be in a similar predicament. He didn’t try to push Harry away; instead, he reached up to play idly with Harry's hair, twisting a dark lock between his fingers, running his nails over Harry's scalp as they slowly came back down to earth.

“You’re a bloody good magi-physio, you know,” Harry said after what felt like several minutes had passed, cringing at how indecently loud his voice sounded in the otherwise silent room.

“I know,” Draco agreed sleepily. He pulled the covers up over them as Harry carefully pulled out and settled down on the mattress next to him.

“I’m serious,” Harry said. “That didn’t hurt at all. Not even when I was thrusting.”

“That’s excellent,” Draco murmured. His voice sounded thick, with the words dragging out slightly longer than usual; he sounded as though he was on the cusp of sleep.

“We should probably test it out again at some point,” Harry suggested, mostly to find out if Draco was still awake enough to be listening. “You know, just to be sure.”

“Definitely.” Draco was quiet for a long while, then suddenly sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. "As much as I’d love nothing more than to fall asleep right now, we should probably get something to eat."

“Sounds good,” Harry agreed, suddenly starving at the mention of food. “What do you fancy?”

***

Draco’s knowledge of Berlin turned out to extend to the best places to get takeaway food, and half an hour later they were sitting cross-legged on the sofa in Draco’s hotel living room, eating the biggest vegetarian burgers Harry had ever seen. He wasn’t even sure what was in them – his best guess was some kind of beans – but Draco had insisted on ordering them something at least vaguely healthy in case Harry ended up playing the following day, and it was delicious.

Everything about the situation should have been awkward, but somehow it wasn’t, perhaps thanks to Draco guiding their conversation smoothly from one Quidditch anecdote to another, never leaving a pause long enough for either of them to really think about what had happened between them, and what might happen next.

When they’d finally set down their plates, Draco nodded at the clock. “You should get some sleep," he said. "Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah, a big day of sitting on the bench,” Harry muttered with a grimace.

Draco tutted at him, unimpressed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You never know what might happen, so you may as well make sure you’re well rested.”

“Fine. Can I stay here?” Harry asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

Draco raised an eyebrow, but the teasing Harry expected didn’t come. “Only if you come through to bed right now and promise not to steal the covers.”

“Yeah, I think I can manage that,” Harry agreed.

“Good. Come on, then,” Draco said. He pulled Harry up off the sofa and they headed through to the bedroom, pausing only long enough to strip naked before they sank into crisp white bedding with identical sighs of satisfaction.

“_Nox._”

~*~*~*~

Harry woke slowly the next morning, gradually becoming aware of the unfamiliar room and the fact that he was naked, as well as the warm arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

The bedside clock revealed it was far later than his usual wake up time of 5am, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed that the previous evening hadn’t been a dream; he really had spent the evening in Draco’s hotel suite, and the night in Draco’s bed.

Even though he wanted nothing more than to stay exactly where he was, Harry carefully eased himself out of Draco's vice-like grip, pausing a few times when Draco stirred or mumbled in his sleep. It was no easy feat: Draco was holding him so tightly it reminded him of the time that he, Ron and Hermione had been attacked by Devil’s Snare.

When he was finally free, Harry gathered his few belongings and pulled on yesterday’s clothes, though not before catching sight of himself in the mirror. He looked thoroughly shagged. His heart gave a funny leap at the thought that he looked that way because he _had_ been. He’d had sex with Draco, and it had been bloody brilliant.

His prick twitched at the memory, but he reluctantly turned away from Draco’s sleeping form, telling himself that he’d have all the time in the world to think about that later. Right now, he needed to get into match mode.

"_You can do this_," he muttered to his steely-eyed reflection, then took a deep breath and slipped out the door, his mind already fixed on the challenge ahead.

***

The atmosphere in the Olympiastadion was electric; by far the best Harry had ever experienced during all his years of playing professionally. He remembered how the papers had gone wild over the German Ministry’s controversial plan to use the Muggle Olympic stadium for the World Cup matches, but it had turned out to be the perfect venue: tall enough for the stands to be raised without reaching the rafters, and far enough from central Berlin that there had been hardly any Statute of Secrecy breaches throughout the whole tournament.

The organisers had clearly gone all out for the final: the teams had flown out to the most elaborate magical fireworks display Harry had ever seen, and every single spectator’s clothes had been spelled to match either the French or English team’s kit.

It should have been amazing, but for Harry it was painfully bittersweet to fly out with his teammates, pumped from Angelina's pep talk, only to dismount in the England box after the national anthem had finished, while a fifty-foot projection of Morris soared around the stands.

He tried to remind himself how lucky he was to have even experienced the introductory lap, but it still stung more than he cared to admit. Luckily, Draco was waiting for him in the box, having secured himself a last minute seat as an Affiliate Healer.

"Remember, don't be a tosser," Draco said affectionately, giving Harry's knee a firm squeeze as he sat down. "Just try to enjoy the match."

Harry nodded, and as the match got underway, he gradually fell into his role as a spectator, cheering his teammates on and leaping up every time they scored a goal. For his own sanity, he tried to focus on the Quaffle; every time he caught a glimpse of Morris, she was being thoroughly outclassed by Baudelaire.

He was almost enjoying himself when, barely an hour in, Morris smashed straight into the referee.

“What did I tell you?! I _knew_ she’d do something like that!” Draco shouted gleefully, a lone voice of triumph against a background of groans, jumping up and down in such an uncharacteristic display of childish excitement that Harry burst out laughing.

He was still trying to stifle it when Terry pointed at him. "You're up, Potter. If you get so much as a twinge in that hip, give me the signal, okay?"

"I will," Harry beamed, barely able to believe his luck.

"Have fun," Draco told him, leaning in close, "and remember, only use your _right_ leg to anchor yourself in your feints and rolls."

Harry nodded as he reached for his broom, then jumped from the box, adrenaline surging through his veins as every England supporter in the stadium – and a few of the neutrals, by the sound of it – roared his name.

He soon saw how Morris had lost her focus: it was a dirty match with plenty of distraction tactics. The French had clearly opted for a low-flying strategy to offset the England team's reputation for high altitude formations, and almost all of the players were within twenty feet of the floor.

The final plan agreed before the match was for Morris to immerse herself in the main scrum of players, so Harry picked up where she'd left off, keeping close to the ground, trying to tempt the Bludgers into following him rather than the Chasers. It was messy work: Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d picked up so many grass stains in a match.

All the while, he kept one eye on Baudelaire in case she spotted the Snitch, knowing he'd have just seconds to join the chase if she tried to make a catch.

Two hours later, they were winning, but the teams were uncomfortably close on points: the score sat at 320 to 290, the goals having slowed down as the Chasers began to tire.

As Harry pulled out of yet another feint, he caught sight of a glimmer of gold. His heart thudded, then skipped a beat. He could see the Snitch, right there, hovering a few feet behind Moreau.

He changed course, flying over to Moreau with as little urgency as he dared; it wouldn't do to tip the French off to his sighting.

“Hi Raph,” he shouted, neatly dodging a Bludger from Moreau’s club, pretending to look at a point in the distance. “Good to see you again!”

“Been 'aving fun with Draco?” Moreau called out. “I hope he’s taken you on a few proper dates, at least.”

"No dates," Harry admitted, keeping the Snitch in his peripheral vision, trying to work out which way it was about to dart: he knew that an incorrect guess would ruin his chances of getting it. "We've mostly been staying in."

Baudelaire shot past above them, clearly baffled to see Harry and Moreau having a chat in the middle of such a crucial match. It was exactly what Harry had been counting on.

Harry seized her moment of distraction and accelerated, taking full advantage of the power that had convinced him to switch to the Nebula in the first place. He ducked under Moreau and swung down into a barrel roll just like the ones he’d practiced with Draco, hooking his right leg around the broom as he reached, stretching as far as he could to close his fingers around the tiny golden ball...

_Looks like Potter's seen something, he's going low – oh, what a roll! – yes, it's the Snitch, Baudelaire follows but he's right on it, flying at full speed now, he reaches … and—POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH!!!!!!! ENGLAND WIN THE WORLD CUP FOR THE FIRST TIME IN OVER A CENTURY!!!_

The crowd, already wild, turned frenzied at the announcement, their roar becoming deafening as Harry held the Snitch up high for the cameras to see. Once they had the shot they needed, he shook Baudelaire's hand and began a euphoric victory lap, overcome by a sense of unreality he hadn't experienced since the end of the War.

Halfway round, he was almost knocked off his broom by Angelina, who pulled him into a one-armed hug and flew beside him, her whoops of delight lost to the din of the stadium even though she shouted them directly into Harry's ear.

Within seconds, the whole team were on him, ruffling his hair, cuffing him affectionately on the shoulder, chanting his name in time with the crowd as they all came to a stop in the middle of the pitch.

Victory lap complete, Harry passed the Snitch to Angelina, slipped out of his teammates' grip and made a beeline for the England team box before anyone could stop him: there was someone else he needed to share this moment with.

When he reached the box, he set his broom down and dodged Terry’s bear hug before pulling Draco into the tightest embrace he'd ever given anyone.

“We did it!!!” Harry crowed, suddenly overcome with elation.

"No, _you did it_,” Draco told him, lips against Harry’s ear. “You were brilliant, and your technique was spot on. Even as a professional, I’d never have guessed that you’re recovering from an injury." He leaned back to look at Harry properly, shuddering as he belatedly realised just how much mud had found its way onto Harry’s kit. “But even so, there’s no need to ruin my waistcoat… you're _filthy_!"

Harry just laughed and grabbed him for another hug, this time making sure to leave a big smear of dirt on his cheek. As Draco began to struggle, a series of camera flashes illuminated the air around them, so bright that Harry flinched.

“That’s going to be on the front page of every paper in the bloody world tomorrow,” he groaned, burying his face against Draco’s neck.

“Might as well make it worthwhile, then,” Draco suggested.

Ordinarily, Harry would have shot down that kind of suggestion immediately, but somehow the cocktail of endorphins and adrenaline running riot in his brain made it seem like a reasonable point to make. Without stopping to think about it, he kissed along Draco’s jawline, then pulled him for a snog; a deep, desperate, undoubtedly _romantic_ kiss, with far too much tongue and more than a hint of teeth.

If the photographers had been excited before, the kiss sent them completely wild. The camera flashes intensified to an unrelenting wall of white light as the growing crowd of reporters bellowed a barrage of questions at Harry, asking him everything from how he knew Draco to what his favourite sexual position was.

All the while, Harry kept his eyes shut and his full attention on Draco; the warmth of his mouth, the silkiness of his hair between Harry’s fingers, the way his hands came to rest firmly on Harry’s waist, anchoring him against the maelstrom of chaos that surrounded them.

Harry only broke the kiss when everything went eerily quiet. He looked around, confused, only to see Terry putting away his wand, muttering furiously under his breath that the press hadn’t asked, “a single bloody question about the match”.

“Thanks Terry,” Harry grinned.

“Any time,” Terry replied. "In fact, Harry," he added, flinching as yet another round of flashes went off, "after that catch there's nothing I wouldn't do for you – I'd kill the lot of them if you asked me to."

"Erm, thanks Terry, but maybe hold off on the mass murder for today," Harry suggested, hoping the reporters couldn't read his lips.

They looked out at the flock of hungry press, still shouting at the box, apparently unaware that its occupants could no longer hear them.

"Tsk, how can you claim not to love attention after a stunt like that?" Draco teased when Harry turned back to face him.

Harry snorted. "Firstly, it was your idea, don't even try to pin it on me. And secondly, they'll be writing about us anyway,” he shrugged. “At least this way we can control the story.” He reached down and took Draco’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Anyway, I owe you a massive ‘thank you’ for getting me back to match fitness…”

"Don't be silly," Draco said, though his delight was blindingly obvious.

“Silly? I wouldn’t even have been _playing_ if it wasn’t for you!” Harry insisted. “How am I ever going to pay you back for everything you’ve done?”

Draco pretended to think about it. “You could start with dinner,” he suggested.

“I think I just might,” Harry grinned. “Though Raph seems to think it’s you who owes _me_ a few dates…"

Draco smirked. "I have some ideas as to where I could take you … but I think you have other matters to attend to first." He pointed to the center of the pitch, where the officials were beginning to gather, ready for the Winners’ Ceremony.

“Fair point,” Harry conceded, reaching for his broom and bracing himself to rejoin the noisy chaos outside the box.

Still reeling from the thrill of winning and the promise of a date, Harry joined his team to lift the Cup for the winner’s photo shoot, feeling truly on top of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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